


Unexpected Heritage

by chappysmom



Series: Heritage [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sat back on his heels, rubbing his head absently as he stared at the picture in his hand.</p><p>He didn’t look dazed because of the blow to his head, thought Sherlock. It was something else. “What is it?”</p><p>“This photo,” John said. “It’s my mother.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC’s, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss’s, and Arthur Conan Doyle’s. I just like to play here. Not beta’d or Brit-picked. This is the newest story in my “Heritage” series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> Here—what if John didn’t know??

“I’ve got a new client I’m meeting this afternoon, if you’d like to come?”

John looked over at his friend. “Really? Because you haven’t asked since Mary and I got back.”

“Yes, well, I was trying to be … nice. What with you being newlyweds, and all.” Sherlock shrugged. “At any rate, you’re back and I thought you might be bored.

“You mean _you’re_ bored,” John corrected him with a smile.

“Whatever.” Sherlock waved his hand. “The point is—are you interested in helping or not?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

#

 

“Lord Undershaw,” Sherlock said an hour later, as they were ushered into the man’s sitting room. “Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, John Watson.”

“Of course, yes,” the elderly man said from his chair by the fire. “Good to meet you both. Come, sit. You’ll forgive me for not getting up. My legs feel that, after 90 years of toting me around, they deserve as much time off as possible.”

“I know the feeling, my lord,” John said with that charming smile of his. “My left leg took something of a holiday when I returned home from Afghanistan. It was inconvenient.”

“Afghanistan, eh? Mine don’t even have the excuse of a war wound,” the old man said. “They’ve just gotten lazy, damn them.”

Before John could do more than smile in response, Sherlock had leaned forward, impatient. “So, how can we help you?”

“Eager, aren’t you? I suppose this means you don’t want the cup of tea I was going to offer? No? Well, fine. I like getting straight to business myself.” He gave a brisk nod. “My problem, Mr Holmes, is that I’m being blackmailed.”

Sherlock’s brows lifted slightly, but all he said was, “Some youthful indiscretion?”

“That’s the problem,” the Earl told him. “I don’t actually know.”

Well, that was different, he thought, as John asked, “Then how can you be blackmailed?” 

“According to … the man … it was my son who was indiscreet, but since he died a number of years ago, I can’t ask him.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, leaning back in his chair. He thought for a moment, then asked, “But if your son is dead, how are you being blackmailed? I can understand how there could be some bad press, or what have you, but ultimately, wouldn’t the indiscretion be written off as belonging to your son’s account?”

“Well, yes, but even if I was willing to sacrifice my son’s reputation and let the bastard go ahead with whatever he wanted to do … there’s more.” Lord Brandon was about to continue when a maid walked in, carrying a tea tray. “Ah, the tea you didn’t want.”

There was a brief, awkward silence as they all stared at the tea and Sherlock wondered if he had committed some social gaffe. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all, though Mummy had certainly endeavoured to instil basic manners when he was a child. Luckily, John was well-versed in tact, because as the pause lengthened, he said, “Now it’s here, though, I’ll take a cup, if you’re offering. Would you like me to pour?”

“Please,” said the Earl, smiling back. 

As he watched John pour and prepare the tea, he wondered at how similar the two men looked, bending eagerly toward the tea. Sherlock accepted a cup from John, even though he didn’t want it, and then watched John mix his own cup—milk, no sugar—just like the Earl. He wondered what the statistical odds were that two complete strangers would drink their tea the same way. Considering the absurd popularity of tea in the British culture, and allowing for the usual ways of preparing it—milk, sugar, honey, lemon—with all the possible permutations, the statistical analysis could be either quite interesting or entirely meaningless. Would genetics lead one to drink one’s tea in a particular way? Upbringing? Convenience? Or is personal taste such a random factor, it would all be meaningless?

He realized the other two were watching him with remarkably identical looks of amused patience. Sherlock blinked. He was used to such a reaction from John, but … it was unusual enough to be met with patience, much less amusement. He put his own tea cup (milk, two sugars) down with a clink. “So, in addition to avoiding sullying your son’s name, what else do you wish to prevent this blackmailer from doing? How old is this indiscretion?”

“Decades, actually,” the elderly man said with a sigh, the amusement wiped from his face now. “Apparently my son had an affair that we never knew about. That would be … embarrassing at this stage, I suppose, but both he and the woman are gone now, so damage control would be … manageable. Especially in this day and age.”

“Sexual adventures are a dime a dozen,” Sherlock murmured, sipping at his tea.

“Exactly. The problem, though…” The earl paused, searching for the right words. “Do you know how an earldom is passed along, Mr Holmes?”

“Through bloodlines,” Sherlock answered promptly. “The nearest male heir. Why does that … oh.”

“Yes,” the earl said, nodding. “Oh.”

John’s brow was furrowed—with concern rather than confusion. “So, this affair … there was a child?”

“One I didn’t know about. I’m not even sure if Jonathan knew—but the blackmailer does, or claims he does.” He looked at them, distress plain on his face now. “You must understand, I always expected Jonathan to succeed me. I had hoped for grandchildren, but … he and his wife only ever had their daughter, Harriet. There were … complications … so that Margaret was unable to bear any more children. And so I had resigned myself that the title would pass from Jonathan to one of his cousins at some future date.”

Sherlock was nodding. “But the news that he had a son—if it’s true—changes that.”

“Indeed. Even born out of wedlock, this child would hold precedence over my nephew David. Oh, I suppose there could be some legal battle over the legality in the absence of marriage lines—it certainly made a difference in past centuries—but the intent of the law is clear. The title passes to the next male heir, period.”

“And you don’t want it to.”

“No, that’s not the issue.” Sherlock could not even identify the number of emotions that crossed the man’s face. “I had never heard of this child … Ha! Child. He’s a man now, around forty, if the information is correct. There are the legal ramifications, yes, which I would like to resolve while I can … I’m ninety years old, Mr Holmes, so there’s no saying how much time I have. But more than that … this means I have a grandson.”

His voice broke, then, and Sherlock sat patiently, exploring the possibilities as John leaned forward. “You want to meet him.”

“I do, or yes, I think that I do,” the old man said. “But I don’t even know his name. I don’t even know if the blackmailer is telling me the truth. I don’t know what information he has, but … if his story is true, I must act. Now that I know this grandson may or may not exist, I need to know for sure. The one advantage I have is that he assumed I knew about the boy … the man … and had deliberately kept him ignorant of the succession from shame, trying to protect my son’s and my family name. But in truth…”

“In truth, his very existence is news to you. So, instead of striking fear, your blackmailer actually gave you hope.”

“Exactly, Mr Holmes.” The earl drew a shaky breath. “It seems an impossible task, I know, but I need to know if any of it is true. If my son had an affair forty years ago, if there was a child. If the boy is still alive today. If his DNA proves his identity … and then, all the rest … who is he, what does he do? Where does he live? Is he a man capable of taking over my title when I’m gone? So many questions…”

He trailed off, looking exhausted. Sherlock glanced at John, noting the look of concern on his face as he observed the Earl’s colour and the signs of strain. The doctor gave Sherlock a quick look and then nodded. Sherlock had to agree. He might not usually have much interest in helping the peerage—their problems were usually so boring—but there was something about this man’s distress that made him want to help.

“I’ll need any information you have,” he said. “Dates, locations, names if you have them. A photo of your son, as well.”

The relief on the man’s face was overwhelming. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.” He put down his tea cup and pulled himself to his feet, accepting the hand John hurried to give him. “And thank you, Dr Watson. I have all the information at my desk.

He carefully crossed to his desk while John watched, alert and ready to leap to his aid if his legs failed. It never failed to amaze Sherlock, how much John could care about people, even ones he’d only just met. Sherlock would admit that the Earl seemed much more pleasant than most members of the aristocracy he’d met, but still … it wasn’t like he didn’t have a staff to help him. Did he really need John’s help? John was _his_ assistant, after all. He didn’t need to have his services poached by a wealthy old man, no matter how pleasant.

Sherlock was struck again by the similarities in the two men as John walked alongside the earl. Their height was almost identical, allowing for some shrinkage from age for the old man. Their noses had the same tilt at the ends, too, which was interesting. 

At the desk, the Earl unlocked one of the drawers and pulled out a file, handing it to John. “This is everything I think is relevant. Dates and names, such as they are, but also a handful of photos my son kept from his university days. They were hidden with some of his personal things, which makes me think they could be relevant.”

John nodded and started to turn toward the fireplace, but Sherlock was already on his feet, reaching for the file and caused John to startle. The folder fell to the floor and both of them knelt to pick up the papers, even as John apologized. “I keep telling you to make some noise when you do that, Sherlock. What have I told you about sneaking up on a combat veteran?”

“That it’s a bit not good, John. Yes, I know. Forgive me for thinking your peripheral vision was functioning. It’s not exactly a dark or crowded room.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock,” John said, protesting as he pulled himself back to his feet, a pile of photos clutched in his hand. 

The earl was watching the two of them, amused beneath the stress. “Do you two do this, often?”

“Squabble?” John asked, “Would it be unprofessional of me to admit we do this all the time? More with Sherlock than with my wife.”

“Oh, please. You’re newlyweds. The squabbling comes later,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah? And how do you know that, Sherlock? Oh, wait, one more.” He leaned back down to pick up a stray photo, just under the edge of the desk and then startled, hitting his head.

“Really, John,” Sherlock said, chiding, “The man is going to think we have no sense of professionalism at all.”

John sat back on his heels, rubbing his head absently as he stared at the picture in his hand.

He didn’t look dazed because of the blow to his head, thought Sherlock. It was something else. “What is it?”

“This photo,” John said. “It’s my mother.”

 

#

 

John barely noticed the sting at the back of his head as he stared at the photo in his hand. The woman in the photo was younger than he’d ever seen her, but there was no question it was his mother. She was sitting by a pool in a bikini, shading her eyes with her hand as she grinned at the camera. She looked happy and carefree … utterly unlike the occasionally desperate woman who had raised him.

His sudden silence seemed to concern Sherlock, because his tone of voice had shifted completely when he asked him what he’d found. John couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice as he replied that the photo was of his mother. His _mother_.

“May I see that?” Lord Brandon asked, holding out a hand.

John pulled himself up so that he was kneeling in front of the desk, looking across the top like a child as he handed over the photo. He thought about struggling to his feet, but instead sat back on his heels, drained by the sudden discovery.

“Yes,” the earl was saying. “I remember this. It’s the only photo of this young woman from Jonathan’s university years. I only included it in the pile because it was among the pictures he kept. I honestly didn’t think … How old are you, Dr Watson?”

“Forty-one,” John said absently as he rubbed the back of his head. “And I really don’t see how I could be the man you’re looking for, my lord.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because my parents were married.” He paused, then added, “To be fair, though, I never knew my dad. Mum never really talked about him, but they were definitely married. I’ve seen the license.”

“How about a picture?” the earl asked, intent. “Have you seen photos of your father?”

“Just the wedding photo. They got married in some little wedding chapel in Las Vegas, in the States, and apparently they went for the deluxe package, which included a photo. It didn’t last long, though, the marriage. He ran out on her almost before the ink was dry and she never heard from him again. She told me she considered having the marriage nullified, but when she realized she was pregnant…”

He glanced over at Sherlock who was staring at him. “I thought your father owned a shop in Yorkshire?”

“That was my step-dad, technically. Or, I suppose, not quite, since he and Mum weren’t actually married. They were together from the time I was three, though, which was shortly after Mum came back to England. She’d done university in California, which is where she met my father, but eventually she decided to come back home. Something about my Grandfather being sick, though I don’t remember him at all.”

He looked back at the Earl and was almost worried to see how pale the elderly man had become. “Are you all right, sir?”

The man just nodded, then pointed at the pile of photos still in John’s hand. “Do you recognize anybody else?”

Feeling an odd stirring of curiosity and foreboding, John flipped through the images. They were mostly group shots of friends, laughing and having fun. None of them looked familiar … until he turned the last one over and saw a shot of three young men, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking more serious, more formal than in the other pictures. 

The face in the middle was the same as the one in his mother’s wedding portrait. 

He couldn’t help but stare a moment, but then he pulled his eyes away to look at the man across the desk. “This one,” he said, holding up the photo. “The one in the middle.”

The old man let out a breath and slouched back into his seat. “That’s my son. That’s Jonathan.”

“Jonathan,” murmured John.

“She named you for him,” came Sherlock’s baritone. “Curious, since she apparently had no contact with him.”

“But … that’s not possible,” John said. Because it wasn’t. How could it be? He’d lived his whole life without knowing the man who’d contributed the sperm that led to his birth. Other than a mild curiosity when he was a boy, he’d never felt much of anything toward him. He had had a father-figure, after all. He’d never felt abandoned or unloved, or like he was missing an essential branch from his family tree. If anything, he’d felt angry on his mother’s behalf for being abandoned by her young husband (which hadn’t exactly made John want to go searching for the man himself). But he’d never … how was this possible?

“My son had gone on a business trip when he was 24,” the earl was saying. “To California, which was the only reason I was able to convince him to go, since he wanted nothing to do with the family … business, I suppose you could call it. He was only supposed to be gone for a week, but he kept putting off coming home, saying he wanted to stay … but he never said _why_.”

The elderly eyes were watering now, and John almost wished he could blame age for the moisture in his own. It was the sting, obviously, from hitting his head that was making his eyes wet. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had apparently just solved the major mystery of his life … one he hadn’t ever expected to solve at all. One, apparently, he hadn’t even known existed.

That, and the realization that apparently he actually did still have a grandfather.

“What was the name on the marriage license, John?” he heard Sherlock ask.

“Brandon. John Brandon.”

And the old man’s eyes filled with tears even as his face lit brightly enough to match the sun.

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock usually had no patience for human drama or emotions or sentiment or any of that. (Hadn’t his speech at John and Mary’s wedding proved that?) But this? He could almost admit that this … reunion … was fascinating in its way. 

Now that he knew more of the facts, the genetic ties between John and his grandfather were more obvious than ever. The similarities that had been nagging at him before suddenly made sense. The height, the nose, the tea preferences … though that last might be purely circumstantial. He would really need some kind of blind testing to confirm or deny that hypothesis, and obviously the data was already skewed.

He was sure there would be tedious details to work out, going forward. DNA tests, getting proof of the marriage from Las Vegas … along with proof that it had not been annulled or otherwise legally concluded. 

…And wasn’t that interesting, considering the Earl’s son had gone on to get married again here. Because if the original marriage to John’s mother was still in effect, that made his second wife … not his wife. And now it was the daughter who was illegitimate, not John. (Because, really, how could John be illegitimate? He was the most honestly straight-forward man Sherlock had ever met.) 

The two of them were still comparing notes—dates, times, names, and so forth. It was as if neither could truly accept the truth without massive amounts of unnecessary nattering over the facts. So Sherlock turned his attention to the original purpose for coming here. 

If the earl was being blackmailed for his son’s youthful indiscretion … an indiscretion for which Sherlock was forever grateful since it had led to John Watson’s very existence … how would his meeting John affect it? The earl had said he thought the blackmailer believed he had known the truth. If that were true, his having called Sherlock and John to the case was serendipitous, because it would look like, in his panic, he had directly called his bastard grandchild—presumably to make amends or excuses or some such thing as a pre-emptive strike.

Which would have been logical … except it wasn’t remotely true. 

No, the earl had acted innocently, from a desire to find the truth and do the right thing by a grandchild he didn’t know existed. 

Sherlock had to admit, that was unexpectedly … heart-warming.

He looked back at the other two again. They were talking now about John’s service in Afghanistan. Dull. (Or, well, maybe not dull in itself so much as dull because Sherlock already knew about it. It was old information, unlike the revelation about John’s biological father.)

Did the blackmailer know John’s true identity? If he knew enough to be aware of John’s existence, he would almost have to know his name. But did that automatically mean that he knew where John was now?

There was not enough data to speculate, but probability was that he did. Why draw attention to a person if you didn’t _want_ the attention?

So, what then, really, did the blackmailer want?

“…Sherlock?”

He blinked and refocused on that pair of matching, amused faces again. (Really, the relationship had literally been staring him in the face since they got here.) “Hmm?”

“I asked if you thought the blackmailer knows about Dr Watson?”

“I think he must,” Sherlock said. “The question then arises—is he trying to blackmail you? Or John? Because I feel reasonably certain that this is not the act of a good Samaritan trying to draw attention to a long-neglected grandchild.”

“Yes,” the earl said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I must agree.”

“Or…” John started, then paused. “You said my fa… your son was married? But if he was married to my mother and that was never annulled … that makes him a bigamist. How could he do that? Aren’t there … checks … for that kind of thing?”

“It’s not supposed to be possible, no,” said the earl, thoughtfully. “Unless your mother did have it annulled and just never told you? Protecting you, somehow?”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” John said, tilting his head as he looked at the photo in his hand. “She never really said much about him, just that it had been an impulse to get married—they’d only known each other a few days and alcohol was involved…”

“Las Vegas does have a certain reputation,” the earl said, voice dry. “Even then.”

“True.” John smiled at him, but then sobered. “I asked her once, why it didn’t work out. She just said it had been a mistake, that he’d been called home, and they were never meant to be. She tried to forget it, I think, so I didn’t press. I’ve wondered, over the years, if she tried to find him when she came back to England when I was three, but she never said.”

“When you were three? So that would be, what, 1976? That’s the year Jonathan got engaged to Margaret.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow lifted. That was an … interesting … juxtaposition of dates. John appeared to think so, too, leaning forward eagerly. “Really? That’s … a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps they met and took care of any necessary paperwork then, quietly?” Sherlock suggested.

“It would make sense,” John said thoughtfully. “A few legal papers to end the marriage and then going their separate ways? It’s not like they were a love story for the ages, or anything.” He rubbed the back of his head again, absently.

“Are you all right, John?” the earl asked, eyes concerned.

“What?” He blinked and then nodded. “Oh, well, yeah. It’s just something of a shock. I mean, I knew about their spur of the moment wedding and the fact that it didn’t last, but I never realized that they’d only known each other for about a week. Essentially, I’m the result of a drunken fling.”

“With marriage lines,” Sherlock put in.

“Oh, well, sure. That makes all the difference,” John said, trying to joke. “Though if Mum and Jonathan met to sign divorce papers when I was three … I wonder if she told him about me.”

There was silence for a moment, then the earl said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she did. My son wasn’t perfect, but he cared enough to marry your mother—however briefly—and he would have cared about you, too. He wouldn’t have abandoned his son.”

“But if he was getting married, starting a new life…”

“He would not have abandoned you,” John’s grandfather said firmly. “I’m certain of it.”

There was silence for a long moment as John nodded, trying to convince himself that the older man was telling the truth. Because, really, how could he know for sure? People do unexpected things all the time. Sherlock’s entire career was essentially based on the fact that everyone has secrets and they almost always fail to act rationally—but the earl believed that he was telling the truth, so for now, that was what mattered.

“So,” Sherlock said as the moment lengthened. “We need to determine whether John’s parents got divorced, and it seems that the time from her return to England to Jonathan’s marriage would be the likeliest time frame.”

“Agreed. We need to find out. Especially … especially since, if my parents’ marriage stands, that makes your granddaughter illegitimate, doesn’t it?”

Interesting. Sherlock hadn’t thought about that angle. Was illegitimacy really something people worried about in the 21st century? Lord Undershaw was shaking his head, though. “Oh, poor Harry. This will devastate her.”

“Really?” Sherlock said, but at John’s glare immediately segued, continuing another train of thought. “So, that leaves a number of possible angles for your blackmailer. And, of course…”

He broke off, mind racing. If the blackmailer had known about John’s current whereabouts and was aware of his partnership with Sherlock, he could theoretically be meaning to apply pressure to John himself. Or Sherlock? Maybe Mary?

Too many variables.

“Do you know anything about the blackmailer?”

For the first time, the other man’s face froze, closing off the open expression that had made him so seem so similar to John. 

Interesting. “You know him.”

The face grew even tighter. “He is not a man to mess with, Mr Holmes, and I’m not asking you to do so. I needed help finding out whether his accusations were true—a task you helped me with quite handily—but you need not involve yourself further.”

“No.” John’s voice was quiet, but in the silent room, it may as well have been shouted. “You asked for our help.”

“For a fairly simple investigation,” the earl said, “Not to take on Ma…”

He caught himself, but too late. He’d already said enough. “Magnussen,” Sherlock said.

The old man’s eyes closed as he nodded. “Yes.”

“Wait, who?”

“Surely you’ve heard of the media magnate, John? Except he does more than just publish the news. He collects it—every dirty story, every pressure point … in some ways he is the most powerful man in Europe because he holds something over almost everyone. He is the Napoleon of blackmail. I’ve gone after all sorts of criminals—kidnappers, serial killers, more than I can mention—but nobody turns my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“So you know the man, then,” Undershaw said. “I’m almost afraid to ask if it’s from personal experience or not.”

“Not directly, no,” Sherlock said. “Though I have … friends … who have tangled with him in the past.”

John looked surprised. “You do?”

Sherlock gave a mental sigh. Did John not pay attention to anything? Didn’t he remember the telegram from CAM at his own wedding? “Of course, John. Do keep up.” He looked back at the earl. “The point therefore remains—I would be happy to help you.”

“I wouldn’t ask anyone to tangle with Magnussen, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled. “How fortunate, then, that you don’t need to ask. After all, my lord, if you are John’s grandfather, that makes this something of a family affair, doesn’t it?”

 

#

 

John climbed out of the cab at about half the speed he usually did. All he’d done today was go and drink tea with a perfectly nice old man who happened to be an earl. Why was he so tired?

But then, he supposed life-shaking news like discovering said earl was your grandfather could take a lot out of one.

He was just aiming his key at the lock when the door opened in front of him. “You’re home!”

“And glad to be here,” he said, stepping up to claim a kiss. “Sherlock and I have news.”

Mary’s eyebrows lifted, but she just stepped back, pulling the door wider. “Then come in. Tell me.” 

The three of them went into the sitting room and John wondered yet again how he was supposed to explain any of this. He sat down on the couch, pulling Mary to sit alongside him, taking comfort in her familiar presence. “Sherlock brought me along to meet a client of his today.”

“About time, too,” she said. “You’ve been moping around here for days.”

“Right,” John said, not wanting to get side-tracked, arguing about the definition of ‘moping,’ since he certainly had not been. He’d been enjoying his newly-wedded bliss, hadn’t he? “The point though…”

Christ. How was he supposed to explain this? He looked over to Sherlock and immediately worried that his friend looked all too ready to jump in with his own explanation, and who knew how that would go, so he looked over at Mary. “You remember how we were congratulating ourselves while planning the wedding? About how lucky we were not to be burdened with family we wouldn’t want to invite?”

She nodded.

He took a breath, fingers gripping hers, and then said, “It turns out … I may have some after all.”

“Really? Who? Wait … your birth-father? You found him?”

“Indirectly. It turns out that Sherlock’s client is … was … his father. Which makes him my grandfather.”

“John! That’s marvellous!”

“Yes and no,” murmured Sherlock from where he sat with his hands steepled under his chin. 

“Yes and no?”

John spoke first. “Well, one, my father died a few years ago, and, two…” His voice trailed off. Really, how was he supposed to explain this?

“Two,” Sherlock said, “His father, John’s grandfather, is being blackmailed over Jonathan’s indiscretions—namely John.”

“Except it wasn’t really an indiscretion since he and my Mum were married,” John quickly added. 

“You’ve told me that,” Mary said. “He abandoned her, didn’t he? Before she moved back to England and met Bert?”

“Well, apparently he didn’t so much abandon her as he was ordered back to the family business and didn’t bother to enlighten anyone as to why he wanted to stay in California. I don’t know if he thought she’d annulled the marriage or if he’d forgotten they even were married…”

“Forgotten?”

“It was a Vegas wedding, remember? One of those chapels where you can wander in and tie the knot, no matter how drunk you are?”

Her face fell. “Oh. Right.”

“So, anyway, it’s possible he thought of her more as a fling than as a wife. It’s also possible that my mother _did_ annul it and just lied to me to spare my feelings. And then there’s my favourite possibility—because of the timing, it also seems possible that they met after she returned to England and signed divorce papers that we don’t know about yet.” He twined his fingers into hers and sighed. “About the only thing I’m reasonably certain of is that my father never knew about me at all—and that, regardless of which one is currently legal, he actually had _two_ marriages.”

“And now he’s dead and can’t answer any questions?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “And the blackmailer is apparently applying pressure, claiming John’s grandfather has deliberately been keeping this knowledge quiet to keep John from his inheritance.”

Mary’s face lit into a delighted smile. “Inheritance? Have I inadvertently married into money, then?”

“More than that,” John told her. “Apparently there’s a title involved.”

“A title? Like what? ‘The Case of the Mysterious Drunken Wedding’?”

John tried to laugh. “Not that kind of title.”

“More like, Lord Brandon, Earl of Undershaw,” Sherlock put in helpfully.

“Earl of …” Mary’s face went blank. “No.”

John nodded. “Yes. I mean, there are proofs needed and DNA tests to do, but since my father died, apparently this makes me next in line for a hereditary title I knew nothing about. A terrifying thought, isn’t it?”

She tipped her head. “Well, yes, but … on the plus side, I suppose this means we’ll be able to afford childcare now?”

Now John did laugh, putting one arm behind her and pulling her in to rest on his shoulder. “True.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, before she asked, “So, what’s your grandfather being blackmailed for? _Did_ he know about you?”

“He says not,” Sherlock said, “And I believe him. It’s anybody’s guess what Magnussen wants.”

John felt Mary stiffen in his arms. “Magnussen? Not the…”

“Media mogul with the initials C.A.M? Yes.” Sherlock was watching her keenly now and John suddenly felt he was missing something.

“I wonder if that’s how he gets his stories,” Mary asked. “Digging for dirt and hoping to find some?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock said. “Or he uses the secrets he does know to get what he wants.”

She relaxed back against John. “So, what does he want from John’s grandfather?”

“That’s apparently the question.”

“Really,” said John, “There are a lot of questions.”

“Sure, not least of which is, what did the earl do when he found out who John was?”

“If his legs had been up to it, he would have danced a jig,” Sherlock told her. “Apparently he has longed for a grandson for years.”

“Hmm,” sniffed Mary. “Maybe he should have looked for one, instead of leaving John to struggle on his own.”

John just hugged her tighter. “Now, Mary, if I’d been raised as a member of an Earl’s family, I would never have been working in the clinic where I met you.”

And then he laughed, because the thoughtful look on her face was irresistible, even if Sherlock didn’t look particularly amused.

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

Things were quiet for a time. John provided proof of his identity to his grandfather (i.e., the signed marriage license, the wedding photo, and a DNA sample), and in between all the other demands on his time, managed to find time to get to know the man.

The more he did, the more he regretted not having known this wise, funny man his whole life. He told John stories about his father and in turn, John regaled him with tales from his army days, or solving cases with Sherlock. He’d introduced him to Mary, too, and had been delighted that the two hit it off. Nor had he been surprised when they were presented with a belated wedding present. He could only wonder how much of a fuss his grandfather would make it the baby turned out to be a boy.

Neither he nor Sherlock had found proof (one way or another) of his parents’ having signed divorce papers in 1976, though—or any other year. John had gone through his mother’s papers when he searched for the marriage licence, but had found nothing. Which seemed strange, really. If she’d kept the marriage license, wouldn’t she have kept a copy of any paperwork ending the marriage in the same place?

Still, they were working on it. The only real fly in the ointment (other than the blackmailer issue) was his step-mother and half-sister. And didn’t those two titles sound strange to him even now, a month later? John had spent so much of his life with only his mother and Bert as family, after all. He counted Sherlock as some hard-to-explain kind of eccentric brother, and of course with Mary and the baby, he was creating his own, brand-new family, but … to suddenly find a ready-made family at his age? It was a shock. 

But not more of a shock than his half-sister and her mother apparently felt. They had been furious at his introduction at the outset. His being not only male, but older than the “legitimate” child had rankled immediately, though they had endeavoured to be civil to both him and Mary. Right up until his grandfather mentioned that John’s parents had been married … and that the marriage had never been annulled.

“What do you mean, never annulled?” Margaret had asked John’s grandfather, even as her already icy stare at John had turned furious.

“Just what I said, Margaret. We’re trying to find out, but it’s possible that Jonathan’s first marriage was never actually nullified, or officially ended at all. Which would make yours, er, legally void, I’m afraid.”

“Legally … what on earth is that supposed to mean? Are you telling me that I was never actually married? But … he loved _me_! And, what about Harry?” She looked frantically over at her daughter. “What does that mean for Harry?”

The earl was holding up his hands, appealing for calm. “In the short term, it means nothing at all. She is still Jonathan’s daughter and any bequests of his still stand—and will continue to. Had she been a boy and in line for the title, things might have been different but…” He looked up at Harry, standing frozen, “You will always be my granddaughter. Always.”

She nodded, numbly, then looked over at John. “So … big brother, then?”

“Looks that way,” John said.

But Margaret wasn’t letting up any time soon. “Why now? What made you come forward now? Why not when Jonathan was sick? Didn’t want to complicate your life by visiting a dying man when you could just wait and claim his fortune after he was dead? You’re probably disappointed to know that the house is in my name, aren’t you?”

John was shaking his head. “Not at all. I didn’t know any of this until last week. I never even knew my … father … was the son of an earl. Mum never talked much about him.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Her voice was bitter. She looked him up and down, visibly unimpressed by his casual clothing. “You’re clearly just after his money, and I’ll tell you right now, you’ll not have it.”

“That’s not…”

“Margaret,” the earl cut in. “John truly did not know.”

She sniffed. “So you claim, when it’s so obvious that he needs the money. Just look at him.”

John knew he wasn’t the snazziest dresser, but he felt a little bit stung at that. He ran around London with Sherlock in his Belstaff coat and his designer suits and had never felt ashamed of his wardrobe. How dare she judge? “My funds are adequate, thank you,” he informed his … step-mother? “I assure you, I didn’t come here with any designs on his lordship’s funds, title, or affection. I was here on a case.”

“A case? What are you, a detective?”

“I’m a doctor, actually, but…”

“A doctor! Grandfather, are you ill?”

The old man immediately replied, “No, Harry, I’m perfectly hale for a man in his 90s. No, I called in Sherlock Holmes with a … problem … and Dr Watson came along to assist.”

John was watching Margaret as his grandfather spoke Sherlock’s name, and braced himself, seeing the reaction coming. “Sherlock … he’s that detective, the one who killed himself… but that means…” She turned to glare at John. “You’re the assistant, the one he lied to!”

“He didn’t lie,” John said calmly. “He was telling the truth and was exonerated last year, even before he came back.”

“Wait,” said Harry. “You’re talking about that detective? The one with the hat? And you’re … the blogger? I thought you said you were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor,” John said, explaining as patiently as he could. “I was a captain in the RAMC as a surgeon, but when I came back from Afghanistan, it was hard making ends meet so I started sharing a flat with Sherlock and helping him on cases. I work full-time as a doctor these days, but still help him out from time to time. Like on this case, which turned out lucky for all of us.”

“You, anyway,” Margaret said, not the least appeased before rounding on her father-in-law. “So, what case, then? Did you suspect any of … this?”

“Not before someone decided to blackmail me in Jonathan’s name, no,” the earl said calmly.

“Blackmail! But…” She turned to give John another dirty look.

“No, Margaret,” he said, interpreting her reaction correctly, “John is not the blackmailer. I know who it is. What I didn’t know was whether the information he told me he had was true or not. Jonathan certainly never told me about his Las Vegas marriage, and what reason did I have to believe a blackmailer? So I called Sherlock on the recommendation of a friend and … here we are.”

“Yes,” she said, “Here we are.”

 

#

 

So, that had gone about as well as one could hope, John thought later. The revelation that her marriage had been invalid all these years had shaken Margaret, but it was the revelation that this meant Harry was illegitimate that had irrevocably turned her against John. He had seen it in her face, a vicious expression that he imagined matched that of the sniper who had shot him in Afghanistan, like Moriarty’s as he threatened Sherlock at the Pool. Utter hatred, all directed squarely at him.

Well, fine. He had broad shoulders and had dealt with worse in his four decades on the planet. As long as Margaret and Harry left Mary alone, he would put up with the snide, hateful comments, the allusions to his working-class upbringing. It wasn’t like he was ashamed of it, after all. He had made his own way in the world and had a fair number of honours of his own. Doctor. Soldier. Assistant to the world’s only Consulting Detective. Not to mention husband to the most perfect woman in the world.

He was grateful that Mary seemed unfazed by the vitriol heading his way. She had told him she could understand Jonathan’s family being upset at having their world turned upside down. And, after all, it wasn’t like his father was here to blame—they had to direct their upset somewhere. His father was likely grateful to be in his grave, though, with all this anger whizzing around.

John agreed—but he was even more grateful his mother wasn’t here to face her share of the blame, if blame was even the right word.

It wasn’t like he was going to apologize for his existence, after all. And he certainly hadn’t gone looking for this inheritance. He didn’t even want it! The idea of becoming an earl? It was laughable. What did he know about that strata of society? The closest he had ever come to such airy heights were meetings with the higher-ups in the army—and just about every conversation he’d ever had with Mycroft.

And, well, that had been a laugh. Apparently the news of John’s heritage had been as much a surprise to Mycroft as it had been to everyone else. The older man had sat stunned into silence for a good two minutes before recovering his power of speech. Ever since then, he had superficially treated John much as he had before … except he wasn’t, quite. There was an awareness in the back of his eyes, now, that John would someday hold a significant rank as a member of the peerage—whether or not John would ever know what to do with it.

Actually, to that end, the regular meetings with his grandfather were helpful. They didn’t spend all their time catching up on lost time. There were lessons there, too, for which John was grateful, even if Mary had taken to calling him Matthew Crawley. 

No, really, for a time, things were good. 

Except … Sherlock was still on the trail of the blackmailer. His hyperbole about Magnussen being the “Napoleon of Blackmail” turned out not to be the exaggeration John had thought. How had one, unscrupulous man gained so much power, he wondered? Not like Mycroft, who worked behind the scenes for the government, with all its resources. Not like Moriarty, either, who had constructed a network of criminals all reporting to and owing him favours. (Credit where it’s due, he thought—the whole thing was abhorrent, but at least his network had been based on actual _work_.) 

No, Magnussen was different. First, he was outwardly a powerful man. You would no sooner cross a man with so many newspapers at his disposal than you would slap Prince Charles in public. It just wasn’t done. But Magnussen’s real power came from the secrets he held—secrets that he _alone_ held, and how that was even possible John had no idea. He supposed the man must have informants of some kind, but those informants would never know more than the secrets they themselves provided. It was only Magnussen himself who knew all of them.

Sherlock told him that Magnussen kept all his files, on paper, in the basement vaults under his home in Appledor, and that the key to getting the Earl off the hook would be to get into those vaults.

He just hadn’t told John how he planned to do this yet. John could only assume that Sherlock had a plan. More than one, he hoped, because when he saw Sherlock, these days, it didn’t seem as if things were going well. John had asked why, offered to help, but Sherlock kept insisting he had it under control.

Which John had been willing to believe … right up until Sherlock asked him to meet him in the lobby of Magnussen’s office building and told him they were breaking into his office. 

 

#

 

Sherlock was frankly surprised that John was so surprised. He was going after Magnussen largely because of John, after all. Well, John, and his grandfather. And his wife.

Sherlock still didn’t know what Magnussen had on Mary, but it was definitely _something_ or he would not have sent that telegram to the wedding. Whatever it was, it had to be good—which meant threatening—and Sherlock had promised to protect John and his family, and so here they were.

One of the things he appreciated about John, though, was his ability to adapt to new situations. Taken aback as he was to learn of Sherlock’s plan to infiltrate Magnussen’s office, he nevertheless jumped on board with only a token protest. The look of dumbfounded shock on his face, though, when Sherlock pulled out the diamond ring was priceless.

Sherlock had to admit to a certain enjoyment in surprising John. His face was so expressive, even when he was trying not to show it. The glee on his face when he’d found out about Janine had been priceless. If he’d known how entertaining that would be, Sherlock would have faked a girlfriend years ago. But now, riding the lift up to Magnussen’s office, John’s face was serious—with perhaps a tinge of remorse for Janine’s feelings—but otherwise, all business.

Sherlock had a surprise of his own when they exited the lift and Janine was nowhere in sight. “I did just propose to her,” he said, wincing at the unintended petulance that leached into his tone. It was replaced with a kind of disbelieving delight, though, when he saw her on the floor. “Did she faint? Do people _do_ that?”

Of course, it ceased to be amusing the moment John lifted his hand to show the blood. Janine might be merely an attractive if annoying means to an end (because, really, was the woman incapable of using one’s full name?), but still, he hadn’t intended on her getting hurt. Physically, at least.

Moments later, with a “Stay with Janine,” he continued further into Magnussen’s office. The man had been in his chair recently, so he had to be close. And since the likelihood of his bashing his own employees over the head seemed low, Sherlock suspected the man was in trouble. 

Not that Sherlock was particularly _worried_ about that, not exactly. He’d already expressed his extreme hatred for the man, but that didn’t mean he wanted him dead. Or, well, he supposed he wouldn’t mind, exactly, but he preferred solutions that didn’t end in higher fatality statistics, if only because it was more elegant—and less messy.

Which is why, in an evening full of surprises, Sherlock Holmes was astonished (yes, actually astonished) when the assassin holding a gun on Magnussen turned and revealed herself to be … Mary Watson.

Mary Watson.

How was that even possible?

How was this Mary, holding a gun with perfect confidence, dressed like one of Mycroft’s elite black ops agents? He had known that she had secrets, of course. He had spotted her as a liar the first time they met. He had read the indirectly threatening telegram from CAM at her wedding. He had given a heartfelt _speech_ at her wedding. Her wedding to _John_. He had composed a waltz for them, and publically vowed to keep them safe. So how was this possible?

Hands lifted, he stared at her, reading the competence in her posture, the conviction in her eyes. She was determined to see this through.

“Don’t move, Sherlock, or I will shoot you.”

He believed her. But he didn’t want to believe her.

They stared at each other for an endless moment while Sherlock tried to comprehend what was in front of him. It was rare for him to be confronted with data that was so contradictory to everything he knew—or thought he knew—that he didn’t know how to predict what was going to happen. He searched the familiar face in front of him, but all he could think was that there was nothing familiar about it at all. He knew what to expect from Mary Watson, yes, but this woman?

Dozens of calculations raced through his head as he considered her. He thought about how John was here in the office. How the two of them had broken in. Well, been let in by Magnussen’s assistant, yes, but since she had subsequently been knocked out by a blow to the head, he didn’t think it exactly helped make him and John look any more innocent. If Magnussen were killed now, the first suspects would be he and John.

Which, of course, was why Mary was asking with such urgency if John had come with him. Not only did she need to protect the image he had of her (an image which decidedly did not include combat gear and the impassive, professional mask of an assassin), but she needed to protect John. Because if there was one thing Sherlock was certain about, it was that—no matter how unfamiliar this Mary was—she loved John. Sherlock could be wrong about many things, especially where emotions were concerned, but of that he was certain. 

And that put the two of them in a dilemma. Because she couldn’t afford to shoot John’s best friend, could she?

Except—his brain was processing faster now, driven by adrenalin—could she afford not to? She couldn’t just walk away. Both Sherlock and Magnussen now knew too much for that to be an option. And it would just give Magnussen more leverage over her, in addition to giving him a hold over Sherlock. If she shot Magnussen as she had planned, then he and John would automatically become suspects. 

…Unless…

The only thing that would absolutely clear John of blame would be if Sherlock himself were shot. Because no one would believe that John would shoot him. (Shooting other people, yes, but Sherlock? No.)

But just shooting Sherlock wouldn’t be enough. Magnussen would still be a witness and would hold Mary even tighter in his grasp. The man was already threatening both her and John’s grandfather—could he really be allowed to continue?

Hadn’t Sherlock promised to keep them safe?

He gave the tiniest nod toward Magnussen as he stepped forward. “Yes, I know that you will, Mrs Watson,” he said, reminding her of who she was, to whom her loyalty belonged. Reminding her of John even as he gave himself up as a sacrifice to John’s continuing happiness. He just hoped she thought this through and did the right thing.

And then the bullet was exploding out of the gun and there were more urgent things to think about.

 

#

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock?”

John pushed open the office door and froze a moment at the sight of two bodies lying on the floor. 

“Christ,” he said on a low breath before calling back over his shoulder, “Janine, call 999!” He hurried into the office, eyes intent on Sherlock’s prostrate form.

He never heard the whisper of movement behind him before everything went black.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NOTE: Please don’t hate me. And yes, I deliberately changed Sherlock’s line just before Mary fired.)


	4. Chapter 4

“John? Can you hear me? John?”

With a groan, he struggled to push his eyelids open. 

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” Janine’s voice came to him as he tried to remember where he was, what was happening. Last thing he remembered, he had been helping _her_ , hadn’t he? In Magnussen’s office? But then he had gone looking for…

Jesus.

“Sherlock,” he said, slurring the name as he remembered his last sight of the office. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’s … oh, God, John. He and Magnussen. They’re both…

Terrified now, John struggled to sit up. This couldn’t possibly be happening again. Sherlock couldn’t be dead, could he? Maybe this was just an unfortunate side effect to his concussions, now? A hallucination that Sherlock was dead automatically slotted in alongside the blurred vision and nausea? 

“You should stay down,” Janine said. “I know exactly how you feel—and for once, that’s really true, since I was in your shoes not ten minutes ago.”

John didn’t care. He was remembering now the glimpse he’d had of two bodies lying on the floor. He couldn’t care less about Magnussen, but Sherlock? He was too woozy to stand, but he tried anyway, grateful for Janine’s support under his shoulder. Not that she was all that steady herself, so he leaned a hand against the wall as he crouched, looking over at Sherlock. 

With the way his vision was blurring in and out, it took him longer than he liked to realize that Sherlock’s chest was moving. And then he was lunging across the carpet, not caring now about his own condition at all, just grateful—so grateful—for a reprieve. This wasn’t exactly the same as that morning at Barts three years ago after all, because Sherlock wasn’t dead. Yet.

Fighting back the nausea, he fell to his knees next to his best friend and pulled back his coat. Yes, there was a bullet hole, but it was off to the side. Maybe the shooter had been thrown off by his coat? If so, John would never say another word about Sherlock’s dramatic tendency to flounce about in his great, billowing coat. Hell, he’d buy the man a cloak, which Sherlock would probably love, as long as it had enough pockets. 

He told Janine to call 999 (hadn’t he said that already?) as he pulled back the shirt, feeling a sense of relief. It was more than a graze, but this could have been so much worse. John spared a glance over at Magnussen and saw the clean bullet hole right through the man’s evil head. Even as his hands worked, automatically, part of his brain wondered about that. Anyone capable of a kill shot at point-blank range wouldn’t have missed the kill zone for Sherlock by so much, even with the coat. Unless they hadn’t been trying?

Well, they had known there was an intruder. Someone had had hit Janine over the head, after all. Maybe Sherlock walked in on the execution and the killer had … given him a warning shot? Shot him just enough to incapacitate him so he could get away? But then why hang around until John came in, just so they could bash him on the head as well? It didn’t make sense.

But then, not much made sense right now at all. Between the concussion and the distress over Sherlock’s condition, he was actually relieved when the unemotional, uninjured paramedics arrived and took over for him. 

“Sir? Are you hurt, sir? Is any of this blood yours?”

“What? No, I don’t think so,” he said as they pulled him away. He started to give them a rundown on Sherlock’s condition but was interrupted by his friend’s voice as he regained consciousness. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John pushed the medic away and scrambled over to his friend. Sherlock’s eyes were hazy with pain, but he was awake. “Sherlock. You’re going to be fine. You were shot, but it’s going to be okay—though I’m sure it hurts like hell. Did you see who did it?”

Sherlock winced as the medics lifted him to a gurney, but just shook his head. “Magnussen?”

“He’s dead,” John told him, trying not to weave on his feet, fighting against his dizziness now he wasn’t quite as desperately worried about Sherlock. 

“You’re hurt?” Sherlock’s voice was a curious mixture of sharpness from his concern and weakness from his injury.

“Someone hit me over the head when I came in the room,” John said, waving it off. “I’m not the one who was bleeding on the floor.”

Sherlock was looking at his forehead as he said, “Not as much.”

John raised a hand, only then realizing the dampness he felt on his skin was blood. “Right. Anyway, you’re lucky,” he said as the paramedics prepared to wheel Sherlock away. “It’s not quite a graze, but it’s not bad, either, all things considered. The coat must have thrown him off, or something.”

“Or something,” Sherlock repeated with the tiniest smile, and then they were gone.

 

#

 

John had let himself be pulled away for his own medical care after that. They had cleaned the wound on his head and the forensics team had taken samples from his hands and his coat—looking for gunpowder residue, he had to assume—and then finally he’d been allowed to wash Sherlock’s blood from his hands. He sent a quick text to Mycroft to let him know about Sherlock, and then one to Mary before exiting the loo and sitting down to give his statement.

“We came to visit Janine, Magnussen’s assistant,” he told the suspicious detective. It was a man he’d never worked with before, but he obviously knew Sherlock’s reputation and was sceptical. “Sherlock was planning to propose … Yes, really. He had the ring in his pocket, it should be around here somewhere… Anyway, he wanted moral support, so he’d asked me to come. I wanted to stay in the lobby, but he insisted I come up to the office, which, well, I planned on waiting in the hallway, you know? But when we got here, we found Janine unconscious on the floor. Sherlock thought maybe she’d fainted at first, but there was blood … then we saw the guard knocked out, too. Sherlock left me doing first aid while he went looking and, Jesus, I shouldn’t have let him go alone!”

Because, really, if he’d been there, maybe Sherlock wouldn’t have been shot. Maybe he could have tackled the killer. Maybe Magnussen would still be alive. Though, honestly, he couldn’t say he regretted that man’s loss much at all.

“What happened next?”

“Once Janine and the guard were awake, I went looking for Sherlock, of course. There was obviously an intruder, and he can get into so much trouble on his own. So…”

He paused, licking his lips as his mouth suddenly went dry.

“What did you see?”

“I rounded the corner and looked into the room and … and saw two bodies lying on the floor,” John said, reaching for his water. “I called back to Janine to call 999 and took a step into the room, but … someone hit me, too, and I blacked out. I didn’t see them. I’m not sure how long I was out, but the next thing I knew, Janine was waking me up and making cracks about how we needed to stop meeting like this. She told me Magnussen was dead, but Sherlock was still breathing so…”

There was a pause as the officer stared at him. “You have a certain familiarity with firearms, yourself, don’t you, Mr Watson?”

John just met his gaze, as calmly as he could with a raging headache. “That’s Dr Watson, and yes. The army rather insisted on it. If you’re asking, though, no, I did not shoot either Mr Magnussen or my best friend.”

The detective stared him down. “And yet you’re known to be a proficient shot, and Mr Magnussen died with a perfectly-fired shot to the head while your best friend, as you call him, took a glancing shot to the ribs and should be fine.”

John refused to be rattled. “If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, let me just point out that, first, I don’t have a gun and so far as I know, there was no weapon found in the room. I have no gunpowder residue on my hands or my clothes—which your techs just tested for so they’ll back me up—and I _didn’t bloody well knock myself unconscious._ And why would I want to harm Mr Magnussen? I was just here with my friend while he proposed to his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend,” said the other man, scoffing. “I’ve heard about Mr Holmes. Do you really expect me to believe he has a girlfriend?”

“Why would I lie? My best friend’s been shot, he’s got an engagement ring in his pocket, and I’m quite sure the security cameras from the lobby will show him holding the ring up for Janine to see. You can check with Mrs Hudson, his landlady, who I’m sure will vouch that Janine and Sherlock are dating.”

“It’s suspicious, don’t you think, that Sherlock Holmes would be proposing on the night when her boss was killed just down the hallway? How did the two of them meet, anyway?”

“They were Best Man and Maid of Honour at my wedding several months ago,” John said. “And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my years knowing Sherlock Holmes, it’s that there’s no understanding the criminal classes. I’m sure the shooter, whoever he is, would have planned things differently if he knew Sherlock was coming by, but like you said—who would have expected him to be proposing to his girlfriend?”

Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the hospital to check on my friend. If you have more questions, you can ask me once he’s out of danger, yeah?”

And without looking back, he started to walk to the door.

“I don’t think so, Dr Watson.”

 

#

 

“You can’t tell John.”

The voice filtered through his auditory canals to his brain stem, bringing distortion in their wake as Sherlock fought to open his eyes. 

“Do you hear me, Sherlock? You don’t tell him.”

Ah, now he remembered. “Mary.”

“You can’t tell him.”

He struggled up to full consciousness as she leaned over him, eyes intent. “Deserves….”

“That’s neither here nor there. He doesn’t need to know.”

He blinked up at her through the fog. “Why?”

“Why do you think??”

“Telegram,” Sherlock said, wishing it weren’t so uncomfortable, breathing.

“Yes,” she said, voice blunt. “And he was coming after John’s family, too, which means John _doesn’t need to know_.”

There were so many things wrong with that logic, but Sherlock couldn’t enunciate any of them. Keeping minor secrets from John was one thing, but one of this scale? And, what about John actually being in the office? It was going to look bad. Lestrade knew John was capable with a gun, after all.

“Don’t worry,” she said, reading his concern on his face. “I knocked him out before he could see anything. Unconscious men can’t fire guns.” She looked at him for a long moment, a crease between her eyebrows. “Sherlock … he really … there’s no need for him to know. Magnussen is dead, you’re going to be fine, and now he and his grandfather are safe, don’t you understand?”

He wanted to respond to that, but the pull of the morphine was too strong, and he was gone, falling back down the stairs in his mind.

 

#

 

John was sitting in one of the interrogation rooms, aching head in his hands when Greg came in the door. “You look terrible, John. I brought you some paracetamol.”

“Thank you,” John said, almost fervent as he reached for the pills. “Have you heard anything about Sherlock?”

Greg nodded. “Minor surgery to repair things, but it was a through-and-through near the ribs, missed anything vital. About the luckiest shot he could have taken, really. Other than a certain amount of blood loss, he’s fine.”

“Thank God,” John breathed.

“So … what do you reckon happened, John?”

“Honestly? I think Sherlock walked into something he wasn’t expecting,” John said bluntly. “You know how he is. We walk into the man’s office and find unconscious employees and, instead of calling for security, he goes looking for the intruder. It was stupid, but it’s classic Sherlock, convinced he knows best. I’m just glad the wound wasn’t worse. Even just an inch to the right and he could have died … again.”

Lestrade gave nodded, compassion written on his face. “I know, but that’s not what happened this time. He was conscious when they took him out and the medics didn’t seem overly concerned.”

“No,” John said, “I remember. Assuming they got him to hospital quickly, he should be okay, as long as they address the blood loss. Unless there’s an infection. Gunshot wounds are always a risk.”

“Well, you would know, being an army doc,” Greg said easily, “But what I want to know is—was he really proposing? _Marriage_?”

“It was a shock to me, too. I didn’t even know he and Janine were seeing each other until she came out of the bedroom this morning, but they looked like a couple to me,” John said. “Do you know she calls him ‘Sherl’?”

“What? No … and he lets her?”

“And she calls his brother _Mike_ ,” John added with a hint of glee.

“No,” Greg breathed. “Not possible.”

“I know.”

The two of them grinned at each other for a moment, and then Greg sobered, looking down at the file in his hand. “Right, so … I need to ask you some questions, John. I know you’re worried about Sherlock, but … we’ve got a man dead. A powerful one, and people are going to want answers.”

John nodded, about to open his mouth when there was a tap at the door. It opened to show a very elegant, middle-aged man in a suit that probably cost more than John and Mary’s entire wedding. “I’m sorry to interrupt, My name is Geoffrey Barrington, and I’m here to represent Dr Watson.”

John wasn’t sure which of them looked more surprised, him or Greg at this news. He blinked up at the man, wishing the pain-killer would kick in. “You are? Did Mycroft send you?”

“Oh no, sir. Your grandfather asked me to stop by.”

“My … oh. Right.” John was touched by the news. He hadn’t realized his grandfather cared. 

Greg was looking intrigued. “Your grandfather, John? I thought you didn’t have any family. He wasn’t at the wedding, was he?”

“It’s kind of a new development, actually,” John said. “We only just found out about each other a month or so ago. And, thank you, Mr Barrington. It’s good of you to come, but I’m not sure I need a lawyer.” He looked over at Greg. “ _Do_ I need a lawyer?”

Greg shrugged a bit. “It’s hard to say. I’m sure you didn’t shoot Sherlock and I don’t think you shot Magnussen, but until we find the weapon or the shooter, I can’t deny that from an investigative point of view you’re a person of interest—if only because you were there and I know that you’re capable with a gun. I was at Baskerville, remember?”

John felt blindsided all over again. “Greg, you really think that I could have done this?”

The man across the table spoke very clearly as if wanting to avoid being misunderstood. “I’m saying that I think you _could_ —meaning you’ve got the skills and you were at the scene, or at least in the office. But, John, I’m not at all saying that I think you _did_. There is, however, procedure to follow. You know that better than anyone, John.”

John thought bitterly about the night Sherlock died (or, well, didn’t die) and nodded. “Right. So I suppose a solicitor isn’t a bad idea then.”

Greg nodded amiably. “Look after your interests. It’s a good thing.”

John inclined his head in return. “Okay, then. So, we went to Magnussen’s office because Sherlock wanted to propose to his girlfriend, Janine….”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NOTE: Because, yes, for the purposes of this story, Mary still shot Sherlock, but not as gravely. No lengthy visits to the dungeons of his mind palace necessary. He’s hurt, but … no flat-lining!)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock pulled his eyes open and blinked at the morning sun flooding his room.

“You gave me a scare, there,” came John’s voice from beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Feeling. Good question. “Sore,” he said, mouth dry. Or, he thought he was sore. It was hard to tell, really, cushioned as he was by some really good drugs. He remembered … something. “You?”

“Bit of a headache, but fine,” John said. “Or at least once I convinced the police that I hadn’t shot either of you.”

“Either?” Who else… oh. 

John examined Sherlock’s face, no doubt noting the colour and other boring medical details. “Magnussen is dead, shot straight through the … er … brain.” He grimaced at the near-rhyme. “You were found also shot, but not nearly as severely, which is lucky, because the shooter—I assume it was the shooter—hit me over the head when I got there, so I was no use to you for first aid.”

He was watching the monitors and nodding to himself, as Sherlock absorbed that. He remembered the office, remembered the stand-off with Mary … and he foggily recalled the conversation with her earlier … today? “Mary?” he asked, still struggling to get his tongue working properly.

“She’ll be in soon,” John told him. “She was running some errands since I refused to leave once I got here. The police had some questions.”

Sherlock was sure they did. If Magnussen was dead and John was in the room … had John been carrying his gun last night? “The gun?”

“If you’re asking about the one that shot you, it hasn’t been found. Neither has the shooter, for that matter. They did, however, prove that both bullets came from the same gun, which definitely lets you off the hook for shooting him, and since I was found unconscious with no gun in the room, I’m tentatively considered innocent as well. Though it would help, of course, if they could arrest the real shooter. Did you see him? You must have seen him.”

Sherlock opened his mouth again, but stopped. What could he say? Could he really give up Mary? It would destroy John, perhaps even more than Sherlock’s supposed suicide had. And it wasn’t like he thought Mary would be an ongoing threat … would she? The words stuck in his dry mouth, withered away to nothing as he glanced at the water glass and shook his head.

“Oh, sorry.” John reached for the cup and leaned forward, holding it for Sherlock to sip as he spoke quietly, just for Sherlock to hear. “The real question is, what happened to _my_ gun? I had it with me, but when I came to, it was gone. And who would take it? Who would _know_ to take it? I confess I’m a little worried about it. If the shooter has it and it gets somehow linked back to me…?”

Sherlock let the pillow take his weight as he leaned his head back. That Mary, he thought, all admiration. She’d thought it through properly after all. Not only had she given John a decent alibi to balance the suspicion of his being there when Magnussen was shot, she was smart enough to know John had been carrying his gun and to remove it from the scene so as to make him look unarmed and harmless. He wondered what she’d done with it. For now, though, he just gave his head a brief shake. He needed to know what John had told the police. “What did Lestrade say?”

“He thinks that you were there to propose to Janine and I was there for moral support,” John said, accurately interpreting Sherlock’s query. “You’re in for some teasing about the whole girlfriend thing, but … I said the security cameras from the lobby should back us up since you held the ring up to the camera, right there in the hallway. I can’t imagine Magnussen didn’t have cameras recording all that. The original detective thought it was suspicious that you would choose to propose on the night an unknown assassin shot Magnussen, but … well, that really was a coincidence, wasn’t it? And you were shot, after all. He tried to play up that it wasn’t a serious injury, that I might have done it to give us both an excuse, but he’s an idiot. I would never do that. I told him any gunshot wound is a risk. And, anyway, Greg doesn’t believe it. He might have suspicions about why we were there, but … It helps that Janine and Mrs Hudson are confirming that she is your girlfriend, too.”

John paused there and then grinned at him. “You should brace yourself, incidentally, because Janine has been busy selling her story to the tabloids. You might not have picked the most stable girl to fall for, Sherlock. If I wasn’t so sure you’d been faking it all this time, I would be worried about you.”

Sherlock smiled back at him. John did know him well. He was impressed that John had played up the proposal aspect of the visit for their alibi. It made perfect sense, after all, and even if the police were suspicious, well, nothing could be proved. Though it wouldn’t hurt to have… “We should get you a lawyer, just in case,” he said. Mycroft would be happy to provide one, he was sure.

“We have one—Geoffrey Barrington.”

“Really?” Because that was surprising. The Barrington firm was very elite.

“You know, I could get used to a less-talkative Sherlock Holmes,” John told him with a grin. “Yes, the lawyer is taken care of, courtesy of my grandfather, which, considering he set us after Magnussen in the first place … it was good of him to follow through, don’t you think?”

Sherlock did. Really, John’s grandfather was much less annoying than most people he knew, and very much not an idiot. Part of the DNA, no doubt. 

Then he remembered something.

 

#

 

“So, Sherlock’s going to be fine and Magnussen is dead,” John told his grandfather. “It’s obviously far from ideal, but…”

“That should at least take care of the blackmail aspect of our problem.”

“Exactly. And thanks for the lawyer, by the way. I wasn’t thinking about that when I texted Mary that Sherlock’d been shot, but there’s no denying it was helpful.” John smiled as Mary came back into the room. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be happier when the morning sickness stops—not that it limits itself to morning,” she said, sitting down and reaching for a digestive but waving away the offered tea with a grimace. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What are we talking about?”

“Sherlock,” said John’s grandfather. “I feel this is my fault for getting him involved.”

“But if you hadn’t gotten Sherlock involved, we wouldn’t have met,” John said. “Or not as quickly, anyway. He might have tracked me down by now, I suppose. He is really very good at what he does.”

“Did he identify the shooter?”

John shook his head even as Mary shuddered briefly at his side. “That poor man,” she said. “This must be so hard for him. He’s so used to being able to just spout off his observations, knowing everything.”

“I’m thinking the shooter must have had on a mask,” John said, “So even though Sherlock would be able to give some details, he never saw the face. And, of course, severe trauma can do funny things to your memory. I still can’t remember the details of that last patrol I was on in Afghanistan. I remember heading out, but … the only details I know are from reading the report and what I see in my dreams.”

Now his grandfather shuddered. “I can’t bear to think about that—your being shot like that. I would never have known you.”

“Well, you barely know me now,” John said with a laugh, “But we’ll change that. We’ve got plenty of time to learn all about each other.”

“Oh, good lord,” Mary said with a laugh, “If you want to start running now, sir, I’ll hold him back.”

They were all laughing when John’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and said, “I have to take this,” as he got up and retreated toward the other end of the room. “Greg?”

“ _John? I came to see Himself, but … he’s not here_ ”

“Not there? What do you mean? Are they running tests? Is there a problem? It’s too soon for him to be released.”

“ _That’s what I’m saying. He’s gone. The room is empty and the window is open. He did more than just leave, John. It looks like he escaped._ ”

“But … why would he do that?” John could almost feel his heard starting to swim.

“ _Got me, but we have to find him. He might not be at death’s door, but…_ ”

“He’s in no state to be wandering around on his own,” John finished for him, already turning back toward Mary and his Grandfather, excuses readying themselves on his lips. “Should I meet you there, or…?”

They decided to search independently and John rang off. Before he could begin his excuses, though, Mary was asking, “Was that the hospital? Is Sherlock worse?”

“Sherlock is _missing_ ,” John told her. “It sounds like he bloody well climbed out the window. I’ve got to…”

“Yes, of course,” his grandfather said, “Go! Find the young idiot before he kills himself. And let me know when you do.”

And, John turned to the door, barely registering the sound of Mary hurrying behind him.

 

#

 

Things moved oddly after that—in some ways lightning fast, in others … well, the search itself seemed agonizingly slow. When John collapsed into his old chair at 221B, he felt like he’d been searching for days.

And then he realized his chair was actually there. 

The last time he’d been in 221B … was it only yesterday morning? … his chair had been stashed somewhere else because it ‘blocked the view to the kitchen.’ And now it was here, in its old spot, almost as if Sherlock knew John would be needing it.

And why was there a bottle of Mary’s perfume sitting next to it?

It made no sense, and yet … the hair at the back of his neck was prickling and erect as if he were in line of a sniper rifle again … and he suddenly wanted nothing to do with his ringing phone, even if it was Sherlock on the line. 

His better nature took hold, though, and he reached for the phone, cautiously, as if it might bite. “Where are you, Sherlock?”

“ _John, we need to talk_.”

 

#

 

The next portion of the evening was torturous. 

John showed up at Leinster Gardens, breathless, and opened the real door to the fake house. “Sherlock?” he called, stepping into the narrow hallway.

“John.”

There was a wheelchair down at the end and John felt his heart clench for a moment as he pulled in a deep breath. “Sherlock. You’ve had us all frantic. What are you doing here?”

“There isn’t a lot of time, John.”

John felt the flutter of worry skitter along his nerves again. “What are you saying? You’re going to be fine, Sherlock, but you should be in hospital…”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said. “There’s something you need to know, but I can’t tell you what it is. The only way this can work is for us both to play a part in the drama that’s coming up next—just as soon as my guest arrives.”

John took a step forward, feeling the strain of the last hours forcing his temper toward the redline. “Guest? What are you talking about?”

Sherlock’s voice was weary when he answered. “I promise I’m not trying to be difficult, John, but it’s not something … you need to witness this for yourself, with no preconceptions, no prior explanations. But … it’s going to be hard, John.”

John didn’t know what to think. “Worth your nearly killing yourself, Sherlock? I know your gunshot wound could have been worse, but is whatever-this-is worth your running around the city, pulling stitches?”

When Sherlock simply nodded his head, John believed him.

“Right. What do you need me to do?”

 

#

 

John practically flew out of the cab as it pulled to a stop at 221 Baker Street. Part of him whispered that he should really help Sherlock up the stairs, make sure his friend’s health wasn’t further compromised, but most of him just needed to be _out_. Out of that cab and up, away, putting distance between himself and his bloody, lying wife … and yes, between him and his omniscient friend who had opened this can of worms by allowing himself to be shot in the first place.

As if that were his fault, a tiny voice whispered, but John silenced it ruthlessly. Right now, this wasn’t about them. It was about him. His life. His betrayal. Just this once, he was bloody well putting his own needs first, and right now, that meant not being helpful and considerate toward the two who had betrayed him.

Oh, he knew he couldn’t blame Sherlock for this one. If anything, his friend had gone to extraordinary (stupid, suicidal, insane) lengths to make sure John knew the truth about his wife, but Mary? Oh, God, Mary. He couldn’t even think … hadn’t been able to since he’d seen her shoot a hole in a flipped coin with his _own bloody gun_. His gun. That she’d taken from his unconscious body just after she’d killed a man, shot his best friend, and knocked her own husband cold.

Honest to God, how was this his life? How was he surrounded by people who would lie and kill and basically just do whatever they pleased? While lying. 

To him.

It burst out of him as he stood there, Mary casually standing by the fireplace as Sherlock leaned on the door jamb. “Is everyone I’ve ever met a psychopath?”

And then Sherlock calmly said “Yes,” and it was all John could do not to explode in a flash of blinding white anger that would obliterate everything near and dear to him. Because why not? What was the point? Why should he keep struggling on, trying to live his life, be a good person, when everyone around him _lied_? 

Because there would be a cost, and it would be devastating, he told himself. Once ignited, that nuclear blast of pent-up anger and bitterness and rage would hurt everyone. It would shred his heart, his soul, and then go on to incinerate every redeeming quality of his love for these lying, deceiving people. There would be nothing left but the lies, and all he would have would be the empty shell of the man he once was, alone.

He knew all this. He knew it in his bones, and so he struggled to contain the blast, fighting with everything he had to find something, some fact, some detail that would make this raging pain subside enough so he could think.

Which is why Sherlock’s casual “yes” was almost as wrenching, as gutting, as everything that had come before in this long, endless night. John turned on him, hissing that this wasn’t funny, because, how dare Sherlock find any of this amusing? It wasn’t enough that he’d shattered John’s life three years ago by committing fake suicide in front of him before disappearing for two years? Now he had to find this new devastation amusing? How many times could John recreate a life for himself before there was nothing left? He’d lost his mother to cancer. He’d lost the army and his life as a surgeon to a sniper’s bullet. He’d lost the life he’d built as Sherlock’s assistant to Moriarty. And now this? His wife … his _child_ might as well be gone, and Sherlock found it funny?

But Sherlock’s face was solemn, sincere even, as it regarded him with … sympathy? “It’s not funny,” John snarled at him, and it wasn’t. Then, when Sherlock went on to say that this was all essentially John’s problem because he’d picked her? As if something in him had known what a lying, deceptive … assassin … he was marrying? And that he _liked_ that?

The rage was burning hotter, now, building up pressure and he could almost feel his vision whiting out to the fury. He was about to lose it, lose his temper, lose his control, his life … everything. He spun and lashed out at the nearest chair, because at least those could be replaced. “Why is everything always _MY FAULT_?”

Because … why? Really, why? Just, why? He might well be an adrenalin junkie—he knew that about himself—but what were the odds that he would end up in this situation? How could his two closest, dearest friends both be like this? They weren’t supposed to be like this. Sherlock, maybe. He’d always known that about Sherlock. But, Mary? Why Mary? Why her?

And there was Sherlock with the answer, like always. 

“Because you chose her,” he said, and John’s heart was about to break.

John stood panting in the middle of 221B’s sitting room and had no idea what he was supposed to do.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NOTE: I know Magnussen’s office had metal detectors in the lobby and John would never have made it past with his gun (assuming he’d had any inkling that he should bring it), but, well, I loved the idea of Mary thoughtfully, considerately lifting the gun from her unconscious husband to further deflect suspicion that he and Sherlock were there on non-romantic business. And then, naturally, she would have brought that one with her when confronting Sherlock, right?)


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched as John unravelled, wishing he could be more help to his friend. Damn Mary for shooting him after all, he thought, because even if she hadn’t had a choice, the injury was seriously limiting him now when he needed all his faculties for what could be one of the most important conversations of his life.

Because he had promised to protect John and Mary—promised to keep them safe. Them, the baby, the marriage. But that was all before … this. Before he’d known that Mary was … whatever she was. Trained, certainly. Better with a gun even than John. Prepared and able to be ruthless.

But also doing whatever she could to keep John safe. 

Or, well, to keep her and John safe.

He had no doubt that, had she thought that Sherlock dying was the only way to make that happen, he would be dead right now, without remorse. (Or not enough remorse to matter because he would still be dead.) 

He understood her perfectly, because were the situation reversed, he would do anything it took to save John Watson. Sherlock might have vowed to protect them both—and he would—but if it came down to it, he would pick John over Mary any day.

In some ways, it was unfortunate that the baby she was carrying complicated the simple math.

Not in this case, though, not right now. Right now, what was best for John was for him to understand how much he was _cared for_. Mary may have shot Magnussen, but she did it to protect John (and herself). John had done much the same for Sherlock, and Sherlock had no doubt that John would kill for Mary in a second. Or well, he would have before tonight, and being John, probably still would. And anyway, Magnussen hadn’t been a very nice man.

Even Mary’s shooting Sherlock was explainable because it was the only way to divert the wrong kind of attention from John himself, unexpectedly in the building on the night she came to take out the blackmailer. Sherlock understood that, and was only grateful that her skill was such that his injury was relatively minor, rather than truly life-threatening.

Sherlock understood all that, because he and Mary were remarkably similar—they would both do anything for the man breaking into pieces in front of them.

If he’d thought that whisking John away from Mary to heal would be the best thing for him, he would have done it in an instant. John’s grandfather would have helped, he was sure, and learning how to be an earl would have given John plenty to distract himself from his passing heartache.

Except, Sherlock knew that wasn’t what John wanted. He might have been bored by the suburbs (and he had been, it was so obvious), but he loved Mary. And he loved the baby that was to come. John would be terrible as a traditional husband and father—there was nothing ordinary about John Watson, after all, not where it counted—but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve this family. That he didn’t want this new, burgeoning family of his.

Which meant that he needed Mary.

Which meant that he needed to understand.

And so Sherlock asked, “Who is she?”

“My lying wife,” John said, eyes burning as he turned to face her.

“No,” Sherlock corrected, and asked again, “Who is she?”

“The mother of my child who’s lied to me since the day we met?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but close his eyes briefly at the pain, but could not keep them closed, drawn to John’s face, alive with passion. How could John be so ignorant about his own nature? Yes, this entire situation was painful for all of them (and he had the stitches to prove it), but still … there was a part of John that revelled in this, that craved the extremes of life. Danger, passion … John Watson was not meant to sit peacefully through a quiet life. His very personality drove him to the far reaches of life’s possibilities.

Sherlock was sure John had no idea how much, even in his grief and rage and hurt, his eyes gleamed as he spoke to Mary. It was almost like foreplay, despite the pain and betrayal. Underneath all that very real, devastating hurt, a part of John was _alive_ right now.

He watched John swallow it back, though, as he glanced back at Sherlock. “Right. Your way, then. Always your way.” He pulled over a chair and told Mary to sit.

“Why?” she asked, the first word she’d spoken since they’d arrived. Sherlock could only admire her skill at reading her husband. She had patiently waited for Sherlock to fight her battle for her—trusting that he would look after her interests, if only because they coincided with John’s. Saving their marriage was what was best for John, and so she had stood back to let him do it—allowing Sherlock to walk John through the hardest part of this, the recognition of his deepest self.

No, she had waited, knowing that if she spoke too soon, said just one wrong word while John was in such a state, she would have lost him. But now that John had moved past the worst of the anger, now it was safe, she allowed herself to speak, to question.

“Because that’s where they sit,” John said, all but hissing the words. “The clients. Because that’s what you are now, Mary, a client. They come with their troubles and they tell their stories, and that’s when we decide if we want them.”

Sherlock saw the glimmer of pain on Mary’s face at the phrasing as she watched John place himself in his own chair, like a judge taking the stand. Quietly, Sherlock moved across the floor to carefully sit in his own, wishing he felt better for this. Even more than any of the confrontations with Moriarty, this was the one conversation in his life that he absolutely had to make sure went well.

Once they were both seated, Mary gave a nod and then moved to the empty chair, planting her feet and settling in for whatever was coming. Here it was again—the first moment of the rest of their lives, and right now, Sherlock had no idea how it was going to go.

 

#

 

John rang the doorbell, trying to resist the temptation to lean against the wall as he waited. In a life that had had a wide variety of “worst days,” he didn’t know if this quite topped the day he’d been shot, or the day his mother died—or even the day Sherlock had jumped off of Barts. Well, actually, that was close, although at least tonight everyone he cared for was still breathing. But everything else he thought he knew … it turned out he didn’t.

Right now, he was having trouble walking because he couldn’t be sure that the ground beneath his feet was going to remain solid. None of the other foundations he’d counted on were still steady—why should he assume that basic geology from primary school wasn’t about to change, too? Though he supposed that might be going too far. Unlike some people, he knew what the earth revolved around, and it wasn’t him.

God, no. Quite obviously nothing in the entire universe went the way John Watson wanted. Or expected. Or even believed.

Really, the possibility that the earth would give way underneath his somewhat unsteady legs seemed as likely a possibility as that the mother of his child had been a secret agent and assassin in another life.

He huffed a weary laugh as he stared at the door. God only knew what secrets were behind it. Maybe a nice, anonymous hotel would have been the better choice, but it was too late. He’d called ahead and was expected.

The door opened, then, and his grandfather’s butler just nodded at him as he stepped back. “Come in, sir. His lordship is expecting you.”

John felt dismayed. “He is? At this hour? I’m so sorry. I never intended…”

He was almost turning toward the door, but the butler closed it smartly. “If you would follow me?”

Wonderful, he thought, not only has my world crumbled, but now I’m keeping my 93-year old grandfather up at night. The grandfather I didn’t even know existed a month ago. Seriously, how is this my life? 

It was all he could do not to giggle as he followed the other man up the stairs, an apology already on his lips as he walked through the door he was pointed to, but his grandfather was already speaking. “What else did you think I would do when you called, John? Of course I’m awake.”

Awake, yes, but John was relieved to see that his grandfather was comfortably seated in his bed, a chair sitting alongside, with a pot of tea steaming gently. It looked warm and welcoming, but not as warming as the look of concern on the old man’s face as John crossed the room. “It’s just so late. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m just glad you felt you could call me. Sit and have some tea. It’s a peppermint-chamomile blend with honey from our own hives—very soothing.”

“Soothing is good,” John said with a weary laugh, reaching to pour some tea for both of them. He leaned back in the chair, breathing in the scent of the herbs and not saying anything.

“You found Sherlock all right?” his grandfather finally asked.

“Oh, yes,” John said. “He’s safely back in hospital not too much worse for wear. He pulled a couple of stitches running around a mere day after being shot, but no real harm done. It’s…”

He couldn’t even figure out where that sentence needed to go. How was he supposed to explain any of this?

“What?” His grandfather’s voice was gentle.

“It’s just ... It was Mary,” he said, blurting it out. “She’s the one who shot him, who killed Magnussen.”

“Mary?” 

It was almost gratifying to hear someone else being as surprised as he was. At least not everyone in his life was an all-seeing sociopath.

“Apparently she … I …” He paused to take a sip of the fragrant tea, rallying his thoughts. “She was being blackmailed by Magnussen as well, though I don’t know the details—just that she apparently has her own secret past, something about being a spy or assassin or something. She was in the middle of taking him down when Sherlock and I showed up and … she shot Sherlock to deflect suspicion.”

“She … but … who would have suspected her?” 

“Not her. Me. To deflect suspicion from me,” John said, correcting him. “If Magnussen were shot and I was there, they would have suspected me, so she shot _Sherlock_ to keep that from happening.”

He couldn’t believe the words as they were leaving his lips, but there was something about hearing them said aloud that made them suddenly, horrifyingly real, and then John was sobbing. Deep, tearing, mortifying sobs unlike any he could remember. He hadn’t cried like this for any of his army comrades, or for Sherlock, lost in a different kind of war three years ago. Even the loss of his mother when he was 20 hadn’t been so gutting. So why, now, when at least everyone was still breathing (except dear old CAM, and who cared about him?), was he reacting so strongly?

He could hear the rustle of bedclothes, and then a warm hand was on his shoulder. And isn’t that just wonderful, he thought, even as he turned toward the warmth, I’ve got a 90-year old man feeling sorry for me now. Yet he couldn’t help reaching his arm around him and clinging like a bloody five year old as the older man rubbed circles on his back.

It didn’t last long, only a few minutes, and then John was regaining control of himself. He couldn’t afford to be weak right now, after all. And besides, his grandfather was far too frail to be leaning over him like this. He said as much out loud and listened to the old man protesting that it wasn’t like he’d asked him to run a marathon, even as he climbed back into his own bed. 

“Better?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t…”

“Don’t apologize. You’re allowed to be human for one minute, John, before you go back to being the stoic soldier. You’ve had quite a night.”

John looked down at the teacup in his hand, miraculously unspilled, and lifted the flowered porcelain to his lips. “You could say that, yes. For the moment, though, Sherlock is safe and sound in hospital, Mary is … well, I presume she’s home in bed. That will have to do.”

“And you’re spending the night here,” his grandfather said, insistent.

John opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it, because of course he was. It was 1:00 in the morning and where else was he supposed to go? 221B? He could go sleep next to Sherlock’s hospital bed, but it wasn’t like his friend was in any danger and, honestly, John needed the time to absorb some of the night’s revelations. Why else had he come here?

And so he nodded. “Thank you. I was hoping you’d say that. I should let you get some sleep, though. We’ll talk in the morning?”

His grandfather nodded. “Whenever you wake up. You look exhausted. The room across the hall is waiting for you.”

John rose to his feet and placed his teacup on the tray, then grasped his grandfather’s hand. “In the morning. Thank you.”

He all but stumbled into the hallway and across to the guest room waiting with the door open and the bedcovers turned down. He barely managed to strip his clothes off before falling sound asleep between the sheets.

 

#


	7. Chapter 7

It was probably inevitable that he would have nightmares that night, John thought as he sat, panting in the bed several hours later. He just hoped he hadn’t woken his grandfather.

John rubbed his hand across his face as he looked at the clock. 5:32. Too late to get back to sleep, he thought as he fell back against the mattress. This really was his life. He looked around the room, dimly lit by the early light starting to creep in through the windows.

He didn’t think he’d woken in a room this plush ever in his life, not even on his honeymoon … no, wait. Don’t think about that. The point, he firmly redirected himself, was that—if things had been different—he might have lived in rooms like this his whole life. 

It was only now that he was starting to realize this. The beginning of this whole mess had been when his grandfather, the earl … his grandfather the _Earl_ … had called Sherlock in for help with a blackmailer, all because John’s parents had had a quickie wedding nine months before he had been born. But what if it hadn’t been a quickie wedding? What if his father had brought his mother with him when he returned to England? Or he had returned to the States? John might have grown up knowing his grandfather, gotten used to visiting and living in rooms just like this one. Maybe specifically this one. 

John was never one to indulge in idle fantasy. He was far too practical a man for that, but he couldn’t help wonder what his life would have been like, growing up this way. Would he regularly dress in suits, have a posh accent like Sherlock? Might he have gone to the same schools as Mycroft and Sherlock—would he have known them? No, that was absurd. It would never happen. He probably wouldn’t have ended up in the army, either, and certainly wouldn’t have been sharing a flat with Sherlock.

He wouldn’t have met Mary, either.

Comfortable as this bed was, lush as the life, John found he couldn’t regret that. Any of it.

Except that everything he thought he knew about Mary was a lie. 

Yes, he had that thumb drive in his pocket with all of Mary’s secrets. (He tried not to think of the absurdity of that—that she carried it around with her. What if she lost it? Or had she only brought it along with the intent of sharing it with Sherlock—assuming she hadn’t decided to shoot him again, with John’s gun this time?) He could plug it into the nearest computer at any time and know all of the things Mary hadn’t bothered to tell him. But did he really want to? He knew there were supposed to be secrets between spouses—even if not at this scale—but there was a difference between “being able” and “should” when it came to knowing secrets. It was a distinction Mr Boundary-Issues himself, Sherlock, certainly had trouble with, but John tried not to step over that line unless he had to—for a case, for a patient, to save a life. Otherwise … secrets should remain secret unless they were willingly shared. As long as they weren’t hurting anyone.

And was Mary’s secret inherently hurtful (not counting having caused her to shoot both Magnussen and Sherlock)?

It was hard to say without knowing it, he thought, but he thought not. He certainly hadn’t seen signs of anything harmful or sociopathic in the time he’d known her. If what she said was true and her past was in fact her _past_ , then that was obviously different than, say, her going around on secret spy missions now.

Assuming that her visit to Magnussen’s office had been a one-off, and this wasn’t something she did on the side on nights when he was working late.

He looked back at the clock. 5:47. He wondered if it was too early to get up. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep tonight. He looked at his phone on the bedside table—he didn’t even remember taking it out of his pockets—and picked it up. There were messages from both Mary and Sherlock, asking where he was, if he was safe.

He supposed they would be worried, the way he’d just taken off last night. He’d seen Sherlock safely to the ambulance and then given Mary a long look before saying he needed to think and heading off down the pavement.

He sent off texts of his own, letting the two of them know he was all right (using the broadest definition of ‘all right’), and then climbed out of bed, too antsy now he was awake to stay put. He crossed to the en suite and was grateful to see a robe hanging from the back of the door. All the amenities for guests, he supposed, before he thought again and wondered if he was in his father’s old room.

No, he wasn’t thinking about that right now, either.

He heard his phone ping with a new message, but ignored it, determined on a shower now to help fully wake up. Maybe it would ease some of the strain in his tense muscles. He felt like his entire body had spent the last twenty-four hours clenched into a knot. A hot shower would do him good.

 

#

 

Sherlock had been reduced to counting ceiling tiles when his phone announced an incoming text message. He reached for it, trying not to pull on his new stitches, hoping this time it would be John and not Mary, asking yet again if he’d heard from her husband. What was she thinking, after all? She knew he was supposed to be resting.

But no, this time it was John, saying he was fine and asking after Sherlock.

_—Bored_ , Sherlock sent back. _Come visit. SH_

In the fifteen minutes it took for John to reply, he worried that he’d somehow said the wrong thing. Was that even possible, with a text message? Since one wasn’t speaking at all? Of course, there was no helpful inflection to interpret ambiguous messages, which, he supposed, is why people had been reduced to those annoying emoticons in the first place. As if a smiley face could ease any possible misunderstanding. He wondered if that was why John smiled so often. Or Mary. Hmm, especially Mary, considering. There were so many new facets about her to consider now, and he hadn’t had the time to indulge. Except he was mostly concerned about John right now, who still hadn’t replied. Maybe he wasn’t actually fine? Maybe he lied so Sherlock wouldn’t worry? It would be just like him. Or maybe he’d been kidnapped and forced to say he was fine? It wouldn’t be the first time, but then, he hadn’t used any of their agreed-upon “tells” for such a circumstance, like misspellings or misplaced punctuation. So then why wasn’t he answering? Maybe he was indulging in a texted conversation with Mary instead, picking her over Sherlock? Or a real, in-person conversation? It’s not like he had said where he was while he was being “fine.” The two of them could have skipped off to their little honeymoon flat like lovebirds the moment Sherlock’s ambulance had pulled away from the kerb. Though when he recalled John’s facial expression, he really didn’t think that was likely, and—angry or not—John would have been the gentleman and let Mary go home to their familiar flat while he … what? Stayed at Baker Street? He certainly hadn’t followed Sherlock to the hospital, so perhaps he really was angry…

The phone vibrated in his hands as a new message came in. 

_—I will later. Promise._

_—At my grandfather’s, if you hadn’t deduced that yet._

Ah. Of course. His grandfather’s was the logical place for John to have gone, wasn’t it? Safe yet unfamiliar—and with loved ones who hadn’t lied to him. Or at least not presumably. Not this generation, at least. In retrospect, it was actually quite remarkable how trusting John Watson really was. 

Sherlock stared at his phone for another moment before responding. 

_—Still bored. SH_

_—Colour me surprised. What did the doctors say last night?_

_—Several torn stitches, but no real harm done. They claim I need more bed rest, though. Idiots. SH_

_—Your doctors are not idiots. I would have said the same._

Sherlock smiled at the screen. He could just hear John’s voice saying that. It was probably something they taught on the first day of medical training, this insistence that bed rest could cure anything. 

_—How are you this morning? SH_

_—Wondering if I should go looking for tea or if it’s too early to wake up Grandfather._

_—Elderly people don’t sleep much. SH_

_—What about the butler?_

_—Sleeping is not in his job description. SH_

_—Funny. I’ll be around later. You should eat something, too. And rest._

_—Yes, doctor. SH_

_—And don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer my question. SH_

_—Not every puzzle has a straight-forward solution, Sherlock. I hear signs of life. I’m heading for tea._

Sherlock couldn’t help but sigh. He knew John was going to struggle with this, but still … why couldn’t he just accept the way things were? After all, Sherlock wasn’t upset with Mary and he was the one she’d shot! Although, to be fair, he’d had more time to absorb this. He supposed it was a shock.

No, actually, he knew it was. He’d watched John reeling under the impact of it not even twelve hours ago. He supposed he needed to be patient.

And then he groaned as the first medical person walked in his door. He hadn’t meant _that_ kind of patient.

 

#

 

“I want to thank you again for putting me up,” John said later, as he and his grandfather were finishing their breakfasts.

“It’s my pleasure, John. I was just glad I was able to do something to help.”

“Well you did,” John said with a fond look. “Not only this, but sending the lawyer the other night. That _definitely_ helped. I mean, I would have gotten out of there eventually, but…”

“Geoffrey Barrington is one of the best. He and his firm have been the family solicitors for years.”

“You know, Sherlock pointed out something interesting when I mentioned Geoffrey’s name yesterday.”

“Really?”

John nodded. “Barrington and Barrington was the name on Mum’s will—not _in_ the will, but the firm that drew it up.”

“That’s … interesting, if it’s true. Geoffrey’s firm has always been rather elite and I don’t know that your mother’s estate, er….”

“Would have been big enough?” John said with a kind smile at the man’s attempt at tact. “Not even close.”

The old man considered a moment. “Do you know when the will was drawn up? I wonder…”

“…If Jonathan had anything to do with it?” John finished for him.

“Yes. Because if so, he would have been billed for it—assuming your mother didn’t pay the legal fees herself. Either way, we should ask Geoffrey to do some digging, don’t you think?”

 

#

 

“So,” John told Sherlock later that morning, “Mum’s will was drawn up by my father’s solicitor, but we’re not sure why. Geoffrey is supposed to be having someone look through the files to see if they have records of it, because it’s possible that if they were drawing up a will…

“…They were also drawing up divorce papers,” Sherlock said. “The timing matches?”

“About a month after Mum and I moved back to England—which puts its about two months before Jonathan’s marriage to Margaret. It’s just odd that there’s no record of the divorce.”

“Or the marriage,” said Sherlock. “Not on this side of the ocean, anyway. If it weren’t for the license signed by both your parents and, well, _you_ , there would be no sign that your mother and Johnathan Brandon had ever met.”

“It’s a mystery,” John agreed easily. “Which in theory also makes it easy to blackmail someone over, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “Though the blackmail is rather a moot point now, don’t you think?”

“As regards the actual blackmail, yes, but we still don’t know the answer to the vital question—did my parents divorce before Jonathan married Margaret? It’s kind of an important question, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” said Sherlock, wanting to shrug, but knowing better because of the damned stitches. He wouldn’t deny it was information that mattered, but, somehow, without the added emphasis from a blackmailer, it was just so much more … boring … now. 

“Anyway, my grandfather is supposed to be asking Geoffrey to dig into the records,” John said after a minute. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Part of him was bored at the very thought of digging through records (assuming the law firm had given him access, which was probably unlikely due to boring confidentiality concerns), but part of him felt left out, that his investigation had been taken out of his hands. This, he felt, he could reasonably lay at Mary’s door. It was her fault he was stuck in a hospital bed—though that was better than the morgue, he supposed. He could have ended up there had things gone differently, if Mary hadn’t thought things through.

“Have you talked to Mary? She was texting me all night,” he asked, changing the subject.

John leaned back in his chair. “No. I sent her a text this morning to let her know I was all right, but that’s it. I just … don’t know if I can talk to her yet.”

“You’re not the one she shot,” Sherlock said.

“No, but I’m the one married to her—and you made it very clear yesterday that you thought her actions were justifiable.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m _glad_ about being shot.”

“No, I suppose not,” John said with a smile. “You still think I should forgive her, then?”

“It’s not really my place,” Sherlock began, fully intending to give John a nudge in the correct direction, but before he could say anything else, there was a tap at the door and Lestrade was peering into the room.

“Not looking too worse for wear, Sherlock,” he said, entering the room, “What with all the gallivanting you did last night.”

“I wasn’t gallivanting, inspector. I had a clear goal in mind. It was just something impossible to do from a hospital bed.”

“Maybe so, but you’re lucky you didn’t make yourself worse,” the man said with a grin, though Sherlock could see that he had been legitimately concerned as he turned to John. “So you found him, then?”

John nodded. “Just in time for him to collapse in the sitting room.”

“Good thing you were there. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that John Watson will look after Sherlock Holmes—and vice versa.” 

He was leaning back against the wall now, smile jovial, but there was an under-layer that had Sherlock narrowing his eyes. “What are you trying to say, Lestrade?”

“Only that the two of you seem to get up to all kinds of things when the other’s in trouble, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m not blind, you know.” He looked at the two of them. “You sneaking out of hospital and then collapsing in your own sitting room? If John had actually found you, he would have brought you straight back here. I’m just hoping I’m not going to find you two were moving a body last night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade. I was in no condition to lift a body last night.”

“Not even his own,” John said with an attempt at a grin. “Where are you going with this, Greg?”

The older man just shook his head. “Nowhere specific, John. I just think it was curious that, close as you two are, you didn’t follow Sherlock to hospital last night, nor did you go home with your wife. I just find that odd.”

“That’s because he spent the night with me.” John’s grandfather was standing in the doorway, leaning on a cane. 

 

#


	8. Chapter 8

John immediately jumped up and helped his grandfather over to his chair. “My God, what are you doing here?”

“I came to visit a sick friend, John, as one does. I would think you’d know that, being a doctor.”

“I was in the army—most of my patients were thousands of miles away from their nearest visitors, not counting squad mates. And these days, most of my patients just have colds.”

“Yes, well, Sherlock was shot, so I thought I’d make the effort.”

Sherlock was unexpectedly touched. “That’s really very … kind … of you, Lord Brandon.” He glanced over at Lestrade, whose jaw had dropped several inches. “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. Lestrade, this is the Earl of Undershaw, Lord Brandon.”

“Right,” said Lestrade faintly. “Right. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Lord.”

“And I you,” the earl replied. “I’ve heard only good things to say about you. Judging from what I heard as I came in, though, I’m wondering if that only goes one way … and if I should be calling Mr Barrington to join us.”

Sherlock was even more amused by the slightly horrified look Lestrade got at the mention of the solicitor. “No, that’s definitely not necessary. I was just wondering at … some things that didn’t seem to add up. Not accusing anyone of anything. I can keep a secret, you know.”

“Like my ability with a handgun,” John said.

“Yes, exactly like that,” Lestrade said. “I just like to have things straight in my own head, is all.”

Sherlock would have left it at that, but John’s grandfather tilted his head in an all-too-familiar fashion before nodding at the door. John nodded back and moved to close it as the earl eyed Lestrade. “The detail you’re missing, detective inspector, is that, while Sherlock and John had perfectly innocent motives for being at Mr Magnussen’s office the other night, there was some information I was hoping to find. That hope had no effect on Sherlock’s plans for the evening, of course—Mr Magnussen was supposed to be out of the office, as you know. Naturally, one doesn’t propose in front of a woman’s boss. His presence was a surprise to everyone, I think, except perhaps the assassin himself.”

Lestrade was nodding carefully. “The unknown assassin that Sherlock can’t identify, even though he was looking right at him when he was shot.”

“That kind of trauma can often leave some memory loss behind, Greg,” John said. “I can’t remember anything of the entire patrol when I was shot in Afghanistan. Even Sherlock’s memory is human—if he’ll forgive me for saying so.”

Sherlock waved a hand, irritated yet touched at the defence. “I told you, the killer was wearing a mask.” (One she assumed from the inside, but still—definitely a mask.)

“Yes, Sherlock,” John’s grandfather said, “But we both know you chose that moment to propose to your girlfriend for a very specific reason. You hoped that, with Mr Magnussen himself out of the office, you might be able to persuade her to let you go through his archives, looking for the announcement of my son’s marriage—or, more importantly, his divorce.”

John was watching his grandfather with something like awe while Lestrade just looked confused. “Your son, my lord? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“That’s hardly new,” muttered Sherlock even as he metaphorically sat back to enjoy the show unfolding in front of him.

“Sherlock, be nice,” John said. “And, yes, Greg. We have proof of Jonathan Brandon’s marriage in Las Vegas forty years ago…”

“Forty-two,” corrected Sherlock.

“Right,” said John with exaggerated patience. “Forty-two years. But what we don’t have is proof that that marriage was either annulled or ended by divorce before Jonathan married his second wife in 1976. In fact, nobody knew about the first marriage at all until, er, recently.”

Sherlock was pleased to see a dawning suspicion spreading across the inspector’s face. The man wasn’t a complete idiot. “How recently?”

“Almost exactly around the time I found my grandfather,” John said, giving the old man a smile.

“Wait … what?” 

“My grandfather,” repeated John, “Only recently discovered, remember? I told you when his solicitor showed up the other night while you were carefully _not_ accusing me of murder?”

“But that … how is that … what does … hell, John!”

“He’s taking it well, I think,” the earl said in a stage whisper to Sherlock. “Much better than Margaret.”

Sherlock nodded. “He doesn’t have as much riding on this news, though.”

“True.” The earl turned back to Lestrade. “It was rather a surprise, as you can imagine, and we’ve been trying to track down proof that Jonathan’s marriage to, er, John’s mother was ended before he married my daughter-in-law, Margaret. Naturally, since Jonathan died two years ago, I can’t ask him, but we’re hoping to resolve this quietly, and Mr Magnussen’s archives were … legendary. I never, of course, would have taken advantage of Sherlock’s relationship with Janine, but he assures me he enjoys multi-tasking.”

“Oh, that’s true,” Lestrade said, voice practically dripping with conviction, even as he stared back and forth between John and the earl. “So, you’re …?”

“This is my grandfather, Greg,” John told him, amused. “Believe me, I had no idea, either.”

“And your parents were married?”

“They were,” John said with a small laugh. “In Las Vegas, of all places. Then Jonathan was recalled home on business and never went back to my mother. We’re hoping that they got together when she came back to England, just before his, er, second wedding, and signed divorce papers then. We’re just trying to keep it quiet while we look. I don’t want to cast doubts on my new step-mother and half-sister.”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” Greg murmured, clearly not thinking as his mouth ran on. “Are you making progress?”

Sherlock couldn’t resist. “We did have a small setback,” he said, gesturing to the hospital bed.

“Oh, right.” It was almost refreshing, seeing Greg looking embarrassed for a change. He stared back at John and the earl for another minute. “Right, then. Let me know if you need any help with that, and I’ll, er, be on my way. You’re looking good, Sherlock. Don’t do something stupid like breaking out of the hospital again, would you? My heart can’t take it.”

 

#

 

“How are you, John?”

John just stared at Mary, almost speechless. “Shouldn’t you be asking after Sherlock? You know, the man you _shot_?”

Her chin jutted out for a moment, then she said, “I don’t need to, do I? If there were anything seriously wrong with him, you would never have left his bedside.”

John could feel his eyebrows lifting. “That’s as may be, but it’s still polite to ask … if you’re still pretending to care, of course.”

“Of course I care,” she shot back. “Do you think I wanted to shoot him?”

“I hope not, but then, I obviously don’t know you as well as I thought, do I?”

He watched her take a deep breath, visibly controlling her temper. “We do have some things to talk about.”

“We do,” he said with a nod, “But not right now. I’m here for a change of clothes and to grab that box of Mum’s.”

“You’ve made progress, then?”

“We think so,” John said as he walked up the hallway to the bedroom and began rummaging in the closet. “We think my fa… Jonathan’s … solicitor drew up Mum’s will, but she wasn’t a client of theirs and certainly couldn’t have afforded the fees. My grandfather is going to check with Geoffrey to ask him to look in their files, but having a date would be helpful, so…” He pulled the box he needed down, thinking that he’d been through it so often lately, he should just leave it out.

“So, that’s good then, isn’t it?” Mary’s voice … he couldn’t quite place her tone at all. Interested and helpful, like always, but … was that real? Or was that just part of her act?

“Could be,” was all he said in reply. “If they drew up divorce papers at the same time. Though it still doesn’t tell why there’s no record anywhere.”

He was crouched down, opening the box, when he realized she had stopped moving. He looked up and saw her staring at him, eyes swimming in tears. “I’m just … I am sorry, John.”

He was caught by the pain in those familiar eyes, trapped by the agony on her face, an agony that he wanted to fix for her. He wanted, longed, to reach over and give her a hug and tell her it would all be fine, but he didn’t know how to do that. He didn’t know that he _could_ do that, because what if it wasn’t true? At this moment, he didn’t know anything about what was going to happen in their future. He wanted to believe that she loved him, that she’d done all of this for love of him, but did that make any of it actually better?

No matter what else was true, she had shot Sherlock. His prognosis was good and—had the idiot not taken an unapproved leave of absence from his hospital bed—he probably would have been going home today. But still. His _wife_ had shot his _best friend_.

How was he supposed to forgive that?

She claimed she’d done it for him, but—even assuming she wasn’t lying, that she really did love him (and he desperately wanted to believe she did)—did that really help? How many crimes had been committed out of a misjudged sense of love and devotion? Crimes of passion weren’t exactly rare things, and even if she had shot Sherlock in a moment of cold calculation as a way of exonerating John from Magnussen’s murder, still … didn’t that make John culpable in the shooting? Wasn’t he therefore at least partly to blame?

And so he looked at her, seeing the distress on her face and hoping that it was real as he answered, “I know you are, Mary. But the question is, are you sorry because you did it? Or sorry that you were found out?”

She sniffled. “I can’t deny that it’s both. I can’t think of anything I could have done differently, John, other than to let Magnussen continue blackmailing all of us—me, you, your grandfather. Wouldn’t that have been worse? He needed to be taken out and I was able to do the job. You of all people should understand that.”

“And I do,” John said with a nod, thinking about murderous cabbies. “That much I understand. But, Mary, you also shot _Sherlock_. He could have died.”

“I’m a better shot than that,” Mary told him, voice rather appallingly matter-of-fact.

“Maybe so, but you know as well as I do that any gunshot wound is a danger—especially for Sherlock since he never listens to doctors. Ever.”

“Except for you.”

“Sometimes, maybe,” John said wearily, “But this time he was driven out of his sickbed, wasn’t he?”

“I couldn’t know he was going to do that,” Mary said, protesting with her forehead crinkled in that way he loved.

“No, you couldn’t,” he agreed, “But if you know Sherlock as well as you claim, you should have … you know what? Never mind. I really can’t have this conversation right now.”

She watched as he pulled a bag from the closet and shoved in the papers, and then started reaching for clothing. “Where are you going?”

“I just … I need a little space for a bit, all right? This is a lot to absorb—you, Sherlock, your past, even just knowing you _have_ a past … like that. All that on top of finding out about my father and my grandfather and an Earldom, for heaven’s sake. I just … I’m not making any final decisions, here, Mary. I just need some time.”

He watched her, hoping to see understanding on her face even as he wondered what part of him still craved her approval even now that he knew that she’d lied.

But for a moment, there, he saw a glimpse of the woman he’d married as she wiped away her tears and nodded. “Okay,” was all she said, but he saw her lean toward him, as if preparing to take a step his way and he couldn’t help but step toward her, too. He wrapped her in his arms and they just stood there, clinging to each other. It wasn’t that long ago, after all, that they’d vowed to cleave to one another in hard times as well as good. As much as he needed some space to think, he still loved this woman …or the version of her he’d fallen for, at least. He couldn’t just walk out with her in such distress.

And so they stood there for a long, endless moment before she pulled away, wiping at her face again. “You should go.”

He watched her, thinking that, if this was all an act, she was the most amazing actress he’d ever seen. It really seemed as if she loved him, even if all the rest was a lie. And that was something, wasn’t it?

“You okay?” he asked, meaning not so much ‘is everything fine and dandy’ as ‘can you survive for a bit until I come back,’ because he knew that he _would_ be back. If nothing else, Mary was carrying his baby, and for his or her sake alone, John was willing to forgive much. Enough to cohabitate, at least. No matter what else, he wasn’t going to leave Mary to do this alone. He’d watched his mother struggling to raise a child on her own and wouldn’t subject any woman he loved to the same fate.

She nodded, eyes red-rimmed now, but her face somehow a little more peaceful.

He reached down and zipped the bag shut and then swung it to his shoulder. “Right. Let me know if you need anything.”

And without a backward look, he was gone.

 

#


	9. Chapter 9

The next months were hard. 

Sherlock healed and headed back to Baker Street. John stayed with him for a week or so until he was sure he healed enough not to be a danger to himself. (Because everybody knew that Sherlock had no sense of restraint where his own physical well-being was concerned. It was just transport, after all.) 

And then he stayed another week because the old, familiarity of Baker Street was a comfort and John soaked in the peace of it. 

He didn’t talk about his problems with Mary to Sherlock. 

He could have, he knew. Sherlock might normally be bored by ordinary sentiment and God knew that listening to other people’s marital problems were boring for anyone, but he would have participated in this case. He had a moral obligation to, didn’t he, since he’d dragged Mary’s secret past out into the light for John to see? 

Except it wouldn’t have made a difference, John knew. He already knew how Sherlock felt—he thought John should forgive Mary. Sherlock thought Mary had done the right thing by shooting him—his only objection seemed to be that she had kept the secret from John.

Because, of course, John couldn’t complain that Magnussen was dead. 

Luckily, the investigation into Magnussen’s death had run into a dead-end. The Press tried to make something out of Sherlock and John being there at all, but Janine’s gleeful tell-all stories in the tabloids had only served to back-up Sherlock and John’s story of being there to propose. (And helpfully gave Sherlock an ‘excuse’ to no longer be seeing her.) Forensics had not found any physical evidence about the shooter, and the only witness to the shooting had been singularly unhelpful.

Sherlock took a fair amount of teasing for that, in the end. Between his prodigious memory failing him over something so vital as his own shooting and Janine’s spree in the papers, John didn’t think NSY would ever look at Sherlock in quite the same way.

No, dealing with Mary was something John needed to work through on his own. And so, after two weeks at Baker Street, he had moved back home. Or the flat that was technically home. That had felt like home such a short time ago.

Now, though, it was just a flat with lots of icy silences. He and Mary were civil to each other and presented a united front of Happy Couple when they were out, but otherwise … it was quiet. No laughter. No joy. No forgiveness.

But there was hope, John reminded himself, in the life burgeoning in Mary’s womb. He wasn’t going to let his child be born into a home filled with hate or tension, and so there was a deadline for forgiveness coming. The end of the year, he told himself. He would give himself that long to work through what he needed to, and then he would have to forgive her.

Because of course he would. She might have lied about her past … and not an ordinary lies about an ex-boyfriend or being a few credits short of a degree at University. No, it was a _big_ lie—having been some kind of sociopathic spy/assassin before she’d met him. Or he hoped it was before. He still hadn’t looked at the thumb drive she’d given him. Her pronouncement that he wouldn’t love her anymore after he’d read it had stayed his hand every time he’d considered plugging it in.

He was curious—might always be curious—but…. He had had so much loss in his life. He honestly didn’t know if he could afford losing one more person. Not when it was preventable. Not when it was the love of his life, the mother of his child.

If he were Sherlock, he knew, he would have torn though the files weeks ago. Sherlock would have been trying to load them onto his laptop in the back of the ambulance on his way to hospital that very night, if he could have. But Mary had given the files to John, and so it was John’s choice. (And if Sherlock had snuck a look without John’s knowledge, John didn’t want to know.) If there was anything Sherlock truly thought he should know, he would tell him.

Well, obviously, because look at the lengths he’d gone to after the shooting? Sherlock would always make sure John knew what he deserved to know. John just hoped there wouldn’t be such melodrama next time.

No, reading those files would be irrevocable and would lose John the wife he loved, the wife he chose to believe was still here. Because John was reasonably sure she still loved him. They might not be laughing these days, but she went stoically through her days trying to do what _he_ needed, and … why else would she do that? If she were truly a sociopath like Sherlock (which was to say, _not_ a sociopath, but maybe with leanings and/or training in that direction), she could have picked up and left by now. She could have smothered John with a pillow, or presumably killed him in any number of creative and undetectable ways. (Part of John would be curious to see which of them would win out, Mary or Sherlock, if she ever murdered him … except he’d be dead and not exactly in any position to observe anything at all.)

No, John felt reasonably certain she wasn’t going to kill him any time soon. Or at all unless he forced the issue somehow. 

The biggest sticking point ultimately wasn’t her past. It wasn’t that she had lied to John or that she apparently could kill without a qualm. John had been in the army. He understood that. He might have preferred to have learned this in a different way, but ultimately, well … everyone had skills! 

No, his biggest problem was that _she shot Sherlock_. His best friend. The best man from their wedding. 

And, as much as John knew that _Sherlock_ had forgiven her before he was officially out of hospital, this was the hardest part for John to forgive.

He supposed it was just lucky for all their sakes that Sherlock hadn’t been more seriously hurt. As gunshots to the torso go, this had been about the best possible shot. (And yes, he appreciated the skill even as he was appalled by the fact that it was his wife who had the skill.) John honestly didn’t know what he would have done if Sherlock had died. Or almost died.

Of course, had Sherlock died, John would never have known it was Mary to begin with.

Sometimes he wondered how any of them slept at night.

 

#

 

“So, that’s it, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It all came down to a weak clerk who allowed himself to be pressured into both sharing the information and into not processing it properly. Your son and John’s mother did sign perfectly legal divorce papers and left them with a representative from your very upstanding solicitor’s office, and never realized that the paperwork was stuffed into the back of a file drawer rather than being registered.”

“I didn’t even realize that was possible.”

“It’s not supposed to be. It doesn’t make the papers any less legally binding, it just makes the proof of them that much harder.”

“But wouldn’t my parents each have had copies?” John asked.

“They would,” Sherlock said. “Unless there had been a break-in at both residences about a month after the dated papers. In both cases, nothing was reported as taken, but I find the timing suspect, don’t you?”

The earl’s forehead crinkled in the exact same way as John’s, albeit with deeper lines. “But then why keep the rather damning originals in the files at the office?”

“Well, they were misfiled into the back of a non-related folder,” Sherlock said. “And I believe the culprit couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy the papers. Hiding them, he could be pressured to do, but destroying them? I believe his morals prevented such a thing. Not that we’ll ever know, since he died in a hit-and-run the same week as those two break-ins.”

“Suspicious all-around,” the earl said. “It’s a wonder nobody noticed.”

John was nodding. “You’d think the law firm would at least have checked his recent cases to make sure nothing was amiss.”

Geoffrey stepped forward. “The problem is that while we _did_ , enough time had passed that this meeting wasn’t flagged as incomplete. And since he had filed your mother’s will as expected, there was documentation that something had come from the meeting, so … nobody knew there had been another set of papers.”

“Poor sod,” John said.

“Poor Jonathan,” corrected his grandfather. “I wonder if he knew?”

“Hard to say, really, your lordship,” said Geoffrey. “I am just glad we managed to resolve this.”

“And without any extra litigation,” said Sherlock, a sly grin on his face.

“Well,” said John’s grandfather, “It’s hard to sue one’s own solicitor. And this has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction … it’s not like we’re still open to blackmail, anymore.”

“Thank God for that,” muttered John.

“Besides,” his grandfather continued, ignoring that, “The timing couldn’t be better.” He lifted his glass. “Happy Christmas to all of you.”

 

#

 

After the last few months, the announcement was almost easy, thought John.

He, Sherlock, and his grandfather had left the study and gone to address the gathered guests. It was tradition, John was told, that his grandfather always spoke a few words. It was his favourite holiday, he explained, and he couldn’t help himself. 

And so John joined him on the stairs, giving a smile to Margaret and Harry as he took his place alongside his wife as Sherlock melted into the crowd. His relationship with his step-mother had improved since she’d learned that Sherlock had almost died to protect them all from the threat of scandal. Not that it hurt that the information he’d nearly died for had proven that her marriage was valid—she likely would have forgiven almost anything after that. 

John was just relieved that they were being civil to each other.

Really, there was a lot of civility going around. 

He kept a polite smile on his face as his grandfather announced to the crowd—were all those people really relatives?—that he had some rather startling news. “A few of you know this already,” he said, nodding at John’s cousin David who joined them on the steps, “But my late son Jonathan managed to keep a secret from me—from all of us—that has just come to light.”

He turned and gestured toward John, who stepped forward, trying to ignore the murmuring from the guests at the resemblance. “I would like to introduce all of you to Dr John Watson, former RAMC captain in Her Majesty’s army, and … my grandson.”

John resolutely kept his gaze skimming over the heads below, watching Sherlock at the back of the room looking outright amused, the prat. He could also feel Mary’s hand resting on his shoulder and took comfort in that, too, knowing that she had his back, no matter how frosty relations had been. 

His grandfather waited until the gasps of shock had died down. “It was a surprise to all of us. Apparently Jonathan met a lovely young woman when I sent him to California on business the year he finished University. What he didn’t tell anyone, though, was that the two of them ran off and got married while he was there … and that nine months later, John was born.” He beamed over at John for a moment. “It is my belief that Jonathan never knew about John—certainly there’s no mention of paternal responsibilities in the divorce papers he and John’s mother signed several months before Jonathan’s marriage to Margaret, my daughter-in-law of almost forty years. Really, this has been a surprise to all of us.”

John glanced back to see the rather stilted smile on his step-mother’s face, but a ghost of a real one on Harry’s. That was a good sign, he thought. He still hadn’t had much time to spend with his half-sister, but she had a wacky sense of humour that appealed to him. And, of course, it helped that she didn’t seem to blame him for his very existence.

His grandfather was running down some of John’s accomplishments now and it was all John could do not to edge behind him. It was positively un-English, he thought, standing there while someone sang his praises in public. He supposed it would help ease any concerns about his being suddenly presented as the next Earl—he might not have been raised to it, but at least he had proved he was a capable man, hadn’t he? Except for that whole, being-shot-and-invalided-home thing? 

Oh, Christ, his grandfather was looking to him now as if he expected him to make a speech. Had he known he was going to do that? 

Mary’s hand tightened on his shoulder and he glanced back at her, seeing the conviction there that he would do well. He patted her hand and cleared his throat. “Right. I’m not terribly used to speaking in front of a crowd—much less one I’m related to. This is really quite a shock, you should know. Until a few months ago, the only family I knew about was my mother, my step-father, and my wife. Oh, and my best friend, too, who counts even if he doesn’t like to admit it. Finding out that I had actual blood-relations on my father’s side came as a complete surprise. Mum never talked much about him—mostly just saying that their marriage had been doomed from the start. Which, well, it might have been, but that didn’t stop her from keeping the wedding photo safe for when I started asking questions.”

He looked out at the room of interested, somewhat sceptical faces. “Of course, she never bothered to mention that my father had been the son of an earl. I don’t think she knew, to be honest with you. Basically, this was about the best-kept secret ever since it wasn’t until the massive coincidence of my grandfather hiring Sherlock for help with a mystery brought us into the same room together that any of this came to light.” John cleared his throat. “It all sounds like the kind of story my wife enjoys reading about in novels. This is my wife, by the way, Mary. Mother of our soon-to-be child. As Grandfather said, I was a surgeon in the army until a few years ago and now I work as a doctor—with Mary, in fact, who is a nurse. I look forward to getting to know you all … though if you could pace yourselves a bit, that would be helpful. I don’t want to feel like I’m under attack—it’ll just bring up flashbacks from Afghanistan, and I don’t think any of us want that.”

He smiled at them and then turned his head toward his Grandfather who gave his hands a clap. “Wonderful! Now, we’ve got some time before dinner, and I’m sure you’re all bursting with questions.”

It got somewhat crazy after that—really, how was it possible that John was related to all these people? At some point, though, he found himself standing alone, staring at Mary as she talked to Margaret in a corner. 

“Are you ever going to talk to her?”

John glanced over at Sherlock and nodded. “I was thinking that now seemed like a good time. What do you think?”

His friend slanted him a smile. “Finally. I was starting to think I was going to need to lock the two of you in a room together.”

“And that would be different than our sharing a flat how, exactly?”

“That’s the part I hadn’t worked out yet,” Sherlock told him, unable to keep the corners of his lips still. “Go on, then.”

John gave him a nod, because yes, this really was the right time for this. He crossed the room and smiled winningly at Margaret. “I need to borrow my wife, if you don’t mind.”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but took Mary’s hand in his and headed for the study. “I need to talk to you.” 

“Oh, are we having conversation today? It really is Christmas.”

He just looked at her, feeling a sense of joy bubbling up, because it really was, wasn’t it? Peace on earth, good will toward men, all that rubbish … except it wasn’t rubbish at all. No matter her faults, this was his wife and he loved her, he did, and it just didn’t seem right to continue punishing her for doing something not even Sherlock blamed her for. 

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything quite yet, though, he was so busy marvelling at the play of emotions on her face—the trepidation and dread. Did she really think he would be so cruel as to break her heart on Christmas day? With his entire, unknown family just down the hall? 

But she obviously did, and knowing what he was about to say, he felt like a boy again, bursting with anticipation of the joys to come as he watched her face as he pulled the USB drive from his pocket. 

“Now?” she said, voice flat and pained. “Months of silence, and we’re going to do this _now_?”

He just nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. She was a trained spy or whatever, after all. She would read everything on his face in an instant … or she would if she weren’t so busy trying to deal with her own flooding emotions. And so he told her, “These are prepared words, Mary,” because how else was he really supposed to do this? 

“Your past is your business, but your future,” he looked up to meet her eyes, brimming suddenly with a hope he hadn’t seen in months. “Your future is my privilege.” 

With a sense of relief he tossed the computer drive into the fire. “There,” he said, punctuating its demise, as he reassured her, “I didn’t read it.”

“But,” and her emotions were truly overflowing now, “you don’t even know my name.”

He watched her, tears streaking down her face and thought she’d never looked so lovely. “Is Mary Watson good enough for you?”

And the relief burst over her face as she sniffled and nodded, wiping her nose with her hand like a child. “Yes!”

“Then it’s good enough for me,” John said, and then she was in his arms, and all he could do was marvel. He was in an Earl’s study with a house full of unknown guests that were all somehow family. It was as unfamiliar as any place he’d ever been, including Afghanistan, but none of that mattered. 

Standing there with his wife in his arms again, it suddenly felt like home.

 

##

THE END


End file.
